“But not the same ones.” Rodaric’s lips curled ever so slightly. “And the ones that you do have are conducted so openly—one might even say brazenly—you are virtually impervious to blackmail. Rather more to the point,” he added, with a shrug and a lift of one dark eyebrow, “you were admitted into this secret before I realized that you were even there!”
The eyebrow came down. Suddenly, Rodaric was very much in earnest. “I wonder, Wilrowan, why you insist on thinking that I dislike you? If I did not trust you implicitly, if I had no high opinion of your courage, your loyalty, your devotion to the queen, is it likely, do you think, that I would have given you command of the men who guard her—no matter how Dionee begged me to do so?”
Will looked down as his feet. It was a new idea, and not a welcome one, that any trouble between him and the king might have been the result of his own intolerance rather than Rodaric’s.
“Wilrowan,” said the king quietly, “I know it does sometimes suit Dionee’s purposes to play us one against the other, but I wonder if we would not be very much wiser if we refused to oblige her?”
Will clasped his hands behind him, over the silver buttons at the back of his coat. He continued to study the toes of his well-polished boots. “You make me ashamed, sir.”
“Do not be ashamed. If there has been any misunderstanding between us in the past, the blame must be mine as well as yours. Let us simply resolve to do better in the future and leave it at that.”
Rodaric cleared his throat. “Although, now you are feeling somewhat chastened, I may take advantage of this softer mood, by giving you new orders.” Will glanced up. “The Chaos Machine has passed out of the country. I felt it go.
“No,” he added, at Will’s hopeful look, “I can’t say where it is now. It is just that the sympathy which existed before—is no longer there. It seems likely the Jewel is in Chêneboix, since the conspirators were seen so near our eastern border. But they might have passed the device on to others weeks ago, and it might have gone north—south—west—I simply can’t tell. I only know that the Chaos Machine is out of our reach. This being so, we can only await further events. In the meantime, I want you to stay very close to the queen.”
Wilrowan stiffened; his eyes dilated. “Is the queen in danger?”
“The queen is in danger of doing herself some grave injury. You are aware of her condition. This is not a time for—for what one can only characterize as madcap and reckless behavior in a woman four months gone with child. This is a time for moderation in all things.”
Will shook his head, gave a small bitter laugh. “But did you ever really think that when the time came she would—moderate her behavior? If so, I must say, you were doomed to disappointment from the very beginning.”
“I did not think that Dionee would change her ways merely because she was carrying my child. But is it like her, Wilrowan, to take long, exhausting rides into the country? To play raucous, romping, childish games on the grand staircase? To drink so much wine that she becomes tipsy?”
“No,” said Will, emphatically, “no, it is not like her! But do you actually tell me she is doing any—all of those things?”
“I do tell you,” said the king, “though with infinite pain and regret.”
Will blew out a long breath. It seemed that quite a lot had been happening while he was in the mining towns, when he was in Chetterly—even in the last few days, while he was searching the city for a suitable house to rent for Lili. “And what has been done to prevent her from behaving in such a reckless manner?”
“I have tried to caution her, others have tried as well. She does not listen. I might, of course, enforce her obedience, but that is something I’m reluctant to do, seeing that she is so desperately unhappy already.”
Will cocked his head. “You think that is the cause: desperate unhappiness? I must say, that would be my first guess as well. You think she continues to reproach herself for the loss of the Jewel?”
“Yes. And also, I think she suffers from an enormous dread of the future. At a time when she ought to be looking ahead with joy to the birth of her child, she can only see a world full of terrifying possibilities. It is to avoid thinking of these things that she has become so bent on diversion.”
“And I am to keep her amused?” said Will, leaning forward and putting the heels of his hands on the desk. “Or am I to scold and to lecture her into more seemly behavior?”
“You are to do both. Or to do neither. You must do anything you deem likely to be effective.”
The king shook his head sadly. “I have never understood why that is, but she never seems to take offense at anything you say, no matter how roughly you speak to her. Yet I have only to make the mildest criticism, and she either bursts into tears or flies into a fit of pique.”
“It is only that when you criticize her she begins to fear that you love her the less. And that my love, which is a brother’s love, is not nearly so vital to her.”
“I believe you are being kind,” said the king, with a wistful smile. “And for that I thank you. But I am less concerned with my own heart-burnings than I am for Dionee and the child. And of course, she must not know anything of the other matters we have discussed here today. As distressing as her present uncertainty must be, were she even to learn the half of what you and I know now—”
“It doesn’t bear thinking about.” The very thought of how frantic Dionee might become, how wildly self-destructive if she began to guess the truth, was enough to make Will feel queasy himself. “Though in the end, she may learn it all in spite of us—particularly if things go from bad to worse.”
“I have thought of that, too. But I am asking you to shield her from the truth as long as possible. I know this comes at a bad time for you, when you expect Lilliana within the fortnight. But I hope that Lili will understand and not feel neglected. And of course, you may feel free to bring her to visit me at any time.”
“Thank you,” said Will, frowning slightly. The offer was kindly meant, but he thought that Lili would be bored to tears, having no taste for life at court. He had intended something very different: to devote himself entirely to Lili’s amusement, to do whatever pleased her, whether that meant walks and rides and picnics, romantic suppers, or nights at the theater. All of that was impossible now, if he must always be dancing attendance on Dionee.
Rodaric seemed to guess something of this without being told. “I have a high regard for Lilliana. If she grows weary of the usual amusements here—of gossip, flirtation, and politics—perhaps she would like to make use of my library, or engage in some other rational pastime. I would welcome her company.” He saw that Will continued to frown. “Still, I realize this is not like anything you have planned. I would not ask you to sacrifice those plans, if it weren’t absolutely necessary. I know what your efforts have been these last months. I wish it was possible to ask less of you now.”
“I understand,” said Wilrowan. He was beginning to feel a grim inevitability, an exorable trend to events, which seemed to doom all his efforts toward a reconciliation with Lili. But the child that Dionee was carrying would be heir to the throne and so must be doubly precious to all of them. Will stood up straight again, saluted smartly. “It will be my honor to attend on the queen.”
“Thank you, Wilrowan. You’ll not find me ungrateful or ungenerous, that I can promise. If we can bring this all to a favorable conclusion, there is very little you might ask that I would be unwilling to grant.
“Supposing that is,” Rodaric added with a sigh, “that five months from now when the child is born, I am in any position to reward anyone for anything.”
27
Tarnburgh, Winterscar—Nine Months Earlier
3 Messidor, 6537
It was high summer in Winterscar, the season of endless light. The cafés and coffee-houses never closed, the theaters staged operas and dramas beginning at midnight, and the streets of Tarnburgh were filled twenty-two hours a day with a rumble of carriages and a passing of
sedan chairs, and with light-hearted, light-headed, light-footed parties of revelers in thin summer satins and tissues and muslins, going from dinners to the theater to balls on foot—for who could sleep when the air was so soft and bright?
Even when the sun dipped briefly below the horizon it was hard to rest, knowing the full light of day would return so soon. Better to nap in the hot afternoons, when heat and the physical toll of so much gaiety combined to make one deliciously drowsy. People stayed indoors during the brief twilight, but they left all the torches and the lamps burning.
The sunset hush was just settling over the city, the clamor of passing carriages outside had died away, when King Jarred walked through his candlelit palace, deep in thought.
In the anteroom to his bedchamber, he found his two pages sprawled on the floor, playing with a set of ivory spillikins. At the king’s approach, the two boys abandoned the game and sprang to their feet. Their white wigs were askew, the knees of their blue satin breeches wrinkled and dirty, and they hung their heads, whether ashamed at being caught at such a babyish pastime, or because it was long past their bedtime, he could not be certain. It occurred to Jarred that he ought to say something, as he was responsible for them.
“We will play cards,” he decided at last, remembering that Zelene had sometimes done so with her own pages. “It is—a more gentlemanly occupation.”
The boys were pleased, though perhaps a little surprised. They brought out the cards and pulled up chairs to a table by a latticed window, where the moonlight came in. Jarred played with them for the next hour, Beggar My Neighbor and My Bird Sings, until the sunrise, when Doctor Purcell arrived.
“You sent for me earlier, I know.” The old man looked apologetic as he made his bow.
“It was nothing urgent. I told them not to disturb you if you were resting. But now you are here, you may congratulate me. I seem to have extricated myself from that little difficulty we discussed before.”
“Extricated?” said the philosopher. “Do you mean the young lady?”
Jarred sent the pages away; it was long past time that he did so anyway. “I followed your advice to the letter,” he told Purcell, once they were alone together. “Well, you know that I did. Mademoiselle and her family fairly haunted Lindenhoff.”
“So I recall,” said Purcell. “And the result?”
“She is apparently convinced that being my queen would be simply unbearable.” Jarred picked up the cards and shuffled through them absently. The deck was a fanciful one: the suits were hearts, roses, rubies, and poniards. “Because—while I never spoke of our future together after that first time, I did—rather make love to her. Nothing serious, just a few kisses, which I have to say she disliked amazingly.”
He smiled ruefully, remembering what a chilly reception his kisses had received. He could smile now, though he had hardly been inclined to do so at the time. But it often seemed to Jarred that when he was with her and when they were apart he was two different persons. “And when I realized exactly how she felt about it, it came to me that if I pretended to be very stupid—if I kept on imposing in that particular way, it might serve to foster her aversion to me.”
“And did it?”
Jarred dealt himself the Queen of Hearts. Amused by the fancy, he ran through the pack until he came to the Knave of Poniards. “Unflattering as all this is to my self-esteem, I must admit it has succeeded admirably. Even better, she has fallen in love with her handsome young cousin, just as you predicted.”
Purcell walked over to the marble fireplace at one end of the room, examined his reflection in a gilded mirror over the mantle. “Jmel, Your Majesty—or Zmaj? I confess I have trouble telling those young men apart.” The doctor made a slight adjustment to his neckcloth. He had dressed in haste on receiving the king’s summons.
“Zmaj. I should tell you, Francis, that I haven’t been near the Debrûle mansion for several weeks, and Mademoiselle has been missing her lessons with Lord Wittlesbeck in the archives. Naturally, I suspected the truth. And when I encountered the young lady in town with Zmaj today—when they both looked so startled and guilty—I knew for certain that our plan had succeeded.”
And if his relief had been mixed with jealousy—it had still been relief. Relief that this pastel fantasy of a palace would remain his exclusive domain, that the comforting old rituals, seldom altered, would remain intact. Relief, above all, that there would be no more intrusions by the dark-eyed little foreign beauty and her bizarre relations.
“This is all very satisfactory,” said the philosopher. “And you may congratulate yourself that no announcement has been made, that you did not write to any of your relations warning them to expect an announcement.” He turned and looked expectantly at the king. “But when do you intend to discuss this with the young lady?”
Jarred put down the cards. “I will visit Mademoiselle the day after tomorrow. After I saw her in town, she sent me a letter asking me to call, suggesting that I come on either the sixth or the tenth, when her aunt will be out of the house. I believe, Francis, that I am about to be asked to grant her her freedom. Naturally, I mean to oblige.” He knew there was still some danger of fanning the embers of his cooling passion back into flame, but a final interview seemed to be required.
“On the sixth, Your Majesty? But are you not engaged to visit your cousin, Lady Serena, at Ravenhurst that day?”
“My heavens, yes,” said the king, slapping his forehead. “Now, how did I come to forget!”
He folded his hands and rested his chin on them. “Though I must admit, while I have always considered poor old Cousin Serena the greatest bore in nature, compared to an afternoon call at the Debrûles’, with the aunt pretending to be so amiable and Zmaj looking daggers at me—”
Despite the growing light outside, it was still very dim in the room; several of the spermaceti candles had burned down. Purcell was in the act of relighting two of them under the mirror, when the king startled him with a sudden peremptory command. “No, don’t do that!”
The doctor jerked and turned around. The king laughed uneasily. “I do beg your pardon, Francis. I can’t imagine what made me speak so sharply. But let that be. There is light enough already, and the truth is, I find that any sort of—glare—gives me a headache.”
Purcell moved forward, took out a pair of his spectacles from a coat pocket, and placed them on the end of his nose. “Is there something amiss with your eyes, sir?” He peered intently into the king’s face.
“I expect it is only the time of the year. I’ll be myself in another few weeks,” said Jarred. Then he wondered why he had not simply stated the truth: It had nothing to do with the light in the sky, it had everything to do with bright lights shining on mirrors and other reflective surfaces.
But there were many things he hid from Purcell: his frequent confusion and lapses of memory, the way that Mademoiselle Ys alternately attracted and repelled him.
“At least,” he said out loud, “there will be no more saltless feasts at the Debrûles’.” He had finally discovered the reason why meals there were always so tasteless: it was a general deficiency of seasoning and a specific lack of salt.
“Feasts without salt?” Purcell had been in the act of removing his spectacles, but now he put them back on and regarded the king with a puzzled frown. “I was not aware that there were any invalids living with the Debrûles.”
It was true that many physicians advised their patients against salting their food. The reasoning was: as salt was deadly poison to Goblins, it could not be entirely wholesome for Men. Accordingly, children, old people, and invalids were often warned against overindulgence—or any indulgence at all. But that healthy adults should shun the seasoning was highly unusual.
“Mademoiselle has a delicate constitution. Not precisely sickly, but highly susceptible. So, Madame Debrûle has engaged a chef who cooks without salt, and the rest of the kitchen staff, if you will believe me, appears to be made up entirely of Ouphs!” Thinking of this, Jarred shu
ddered. Of course, everyone had things of Goblin manufacture—but to actually trust them with the preparation of food? It seemed just a little unsafe.
“You will be going to Ravenhurst, then?”
The king nodded. “I’ll tell young Faison.” Mr. Faison was his personal secretary, an active and enthusiastic youth with his eye on a cabinet post some years in the future. “He can make my excuses to the young lady, and also write a letter to Cousin Serena, reminding her to expect me. Her memory is not what it was.”
But two days later, a little after noon, the king and the philosopher met in the courtyard between the clock-tower and the stables, just as Jarred was preparing to enter his summer carriage.
“My dear Francis,” said the king airily, pausing beside the barouche to pull on a pair of tan gloves, “why do you frown? Is it the startling shade of my coat? Or the coquelicot ribbons on my walking-stick, which I must admit are a little gay?”
“Not at all,” said Purcell. Though he had noticed that the king wore his dark hair unpowdered, that there was a lightness and a lack of formality about his attire unlikely to find favor in the eyes of such an exacting old woman as Lady Serena. “I am pleased to see that you are finally wearing colors. It merely occurred to me that you are leaving rather late, if you intend to reach Ravenhurst in time for supper.”
“Ah,” said Jarred. A lackey opened the door of the carriage, and the king climbed inside. “There has been a foolish mixup—a slip of the tongue on my part. Mr. Faison assures me I told him today for the Debrûles and the tenth for Cousin Serena. I only learned of the mistake this morning.”
He laughed uneasily. “I can’t think how I came to do anything quite so stupid. But after all, it has worked out much for the best. The sooner I break with Mademoiselle, the better for all concerned.”
“Indeed, Your Majesty, I quite agree. And I felicitate you, sir, on the cancellation of your impending nuptials.”
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