28 Pastoral, 6538
The grass over Madame Solange’s grave was already long and green—thanks to the long hours of daylight and the swift northern growing season—when a tiny woman swathed all in black from head to toe, with a hair brooch on a ribbon at her throat and a funeral ring on one slender hand, stood looking down at the white marble slab carved with the name “Valentine Debrûle” and the dates “6496—6538.”
The first of these dates was—which Ys knew very well—as false as the name. Madame never mentioned her exact age, yet it had to approach a century and a half, since Sophie admitted to ninety-seven and was probably older than that.
“I did you a favor,” said Ys. “If I hadn’t decided to help you along, you might have felt it your duty to linger on, practically forever. As it was, you made a remarkably handsome corpse, everybody said so—and what more than that could you possibly ask for?”
Turning away from the grave, Ys started back toward her waiting carriage. There would be no true night at this time of the year—just a brilliant sunset, followed by several hours of twilight—but the sun was sinking toward the horizon, the shadows were lengthening, and a sudden chill, real or imaginary, caused a shiver to pass over her. Was it some premonition of evil to come? Ys glanced suspiciously around her and saw a small, plump figure, dressed as she was, all in black with a waist-length veil, coming across the graveyard through the knee-high grass to meet her.
“Oh, Sophie, Sophie!” Ys hurried her steps; she all but flung herself into the waiting arms of her aunt. “Oh Aunt Sophie, I am so glad to see you.”
Sophie hugged her briefly, then drew back a little to take a long look at her. “How thin you have grown. But I can hardly wonder at that. Such a tragedy, my dear. I came as soon as I heard, as soon as I could, but there were—complications along the way.”
Ys shrugged out of her embrace. “Was it a tragedy? I don’t think so. Madame Solange was getting above herself. I know you were fond of her, but I believe we are much better off without her.”
Sophie stared at Ys for a long moment in shocked silence. “Ys,” she said very quietly, when she was able to speak again. “You don’t mean to tell me that this was your doing?”
“She killed Zmaj; she burned him to death—imagine one Maglore doing that to another! She killed Izek, too. She was a wicked, wicked creature, and she deserved to die.”
“Wicked? Oh, my poor child!” Sophie seemed more distressed than angry. “Valentine Solange was the most idealistic—the noblest of us all. If you don’t know that, then you will never understand—” She drew in a long shuddering breath. “Val never did anything for herself; it was all for our glorious cause. She would have laid down her own life. Indeed, she always intended to do just that, but she wanted to see you securely established first. How could you do this while we still needed her?”
Ys scowled fiercely, twisting the ring on her right hand. “I am securely established. I don’t need anybody but you, Aunt Sophie—certainly not Madame or any of the others.”
“Do you really believe that? But you can’t imagine some of the things that I saw and heard as I travelled north. They say that Catwitsen is in chaos, and that conditions in Tholia and Lichtenwald are even worse. There is a revolt in progress right now in Nordfjall, rioting in Mountfalcon, and strange rumors of floods, plagues, and worse things besides come out of Rijxland. Everywhere I go, Men say that the world is coming to an end, that civilization is crumbling.”
“But all this is good news,” Ys insisted, throwing back her veil, stamping her foot. “It is what we wanted, after all. It is only a sign of the success of our plan so far.”
“Not our plan,” said Sophie, with a determined shake of her head. “It was Val’s plan. Val thought of it, Val executed it, Val knew how it was all to end. Without her to guide us, how can we ever hope to bring order out of chaos? This is no time for uncertainty, no time for indecision. It is no time for us to make even the slightest miscalculation.”
Now Ys felt a faint prickle of apprehension. “But she must have told you what happens next. She must have explained to you. She trusted you with all of her secrets. Oh, Aunt Sophie, if you are trying to frighten me, I wish you would not.”
But Sophie only continued to shake her head, more emphatically than before. Stepping away from Ys, she smoothed out the skirts of her black twill gown. “I have no idea. She only told me as much as I needed to know. It was not that she didn’t trust me, but the part I played was far too dangerous, the risk of capture was far too great. She said that what I didn’t know, no one could force out of me.”
For a moment, Ys felt the world sinking away beneath her feet. But then she rallied. “If that is so—then we will just make a new plan. Why should we not? Madame said it herself: we can see months, even years into the future. We don’t grow muddled, as the other Goblins do, if we have to think ahead.”
“We don’t grow muddled if someone like Val is there to explain to us, to map out the whole plan, step by step, and show us exactly how it will work. But to conceive such a plan for ourselves? We may be better than any of the others, but neither of us will ever match Val. She was remarkable—extraordinary. I doubt there is another Maglore like her in all the world.”
“I am,” Ys maintained stubbornly. “I am remarkable, too. I can think for myself. After all, I’ve been doing it all of these months. You have no idea how many things I have done without asking Madame. You weren’t here, so you don’t know.”
Sophie remained unconvinced. “My poor child, I hope you are not deceiving yourself.” She reached out absently, pushed back a stray lock of her niece’s golden hair, which looked very bright against the black silk and net. “Because if you are—I dare not think of the consequences. Oh, I wish, I wish you had not done this terrible thing. To think that all of Val’s work should go for nothing!”
Ys was beginning to tremble. “Aunt Sophie, you are not going to turn against me—you are going to stand by me, aren’t you?”
“Turn against you?” said her aunt, taking Ys tenderly by the arm, leading her back toward the carriage. “My poor child, you and I are the last, the very last in the direct line. I could never turn against you—no matter what you had done!”
But in the morning, Sophie was gone. When Ys went to visit her at the house on the outskirts of town, she found the ancient mansion deserted. A quick search of the premises was enough to convince her that Lord Vif, Aunt Sophie, and the few remaining servants had all of them fled during the night.
There was a letter addressed to Ys, on a table in Sophie’s bedchamber, propped up by a gilded jewel box. Ys carried the letter over to one of the windows and drew back the velvet curtains.
“Ys,” Sophie had written. “I dare not stay. Whatever Affection I may feel for you, there is a greater Principle at stake & J must Obey. Never, never would your Aunt Sophie do anything to Harm you, but Stand by Your Side in the days to come—that She Cannot Do.
“As I told you last Evening, we are the Last in the Line of Direct Descent. If anything should Happen to you, then I have a duty to Survive & to bear Children. Valfound me Wanting, she thought me too Weak for a Maglore Empress. She believed that Chimena’s daughter would better serve the Cause of our People. But whatever I may be Lacking in myself, I may yet produce a Child who will be Strong enough. For this reason, I have taken Jmel with me.
“As a sign of my continued Good Will, I direct your Attention to the contents of a small Box made of ebony & palisander. Which you will find among Val’s effects. If you are as Clever as you say you are, you will Recognize the Object for what it is, & you will make Good Use of the Information it provides. Darling Ys, if you cannot be Wise, at least be Cautious.
“Please believe me ever Your Loving Aunt,
“Sophronispa.”
Ys read the letter three times through, then crumbled it up in her hand, and turned away from the window, away from the light which seemed suddenly too strong. She brushed a hand across her eyes.
> Only gradually could she take it all in: the fact that she was truly alone, that everyone on whom she had ever depended in her life was gone.
But perhaps there was more of Chimena, more of Madame in her than anyone suspected. With a great effort, Ys pulled herself back from the brink of despair. She was determined to survive—yes, and to do more than that! It was not enough to forswear the poison bottle and the ground glass: she must not only live, she must succeed—and splendidly.
In Madame’s bedchamber, Ys threw open the curtains, and set to work at once rummaging through the clothes-press and several large trunks; tossing out petticoats, gloves, corsets, gowns, and shawls; sifting through a collection of ivory busks, tortoiseshell combs, and tiny scent-bottles made of agate and jet. In a small jeweled casket, she discovered an amber pendant in the shape of a tear-drop with a tiny spider caught inside, and a heart-shaped pouncet box made of silver.
Finding nothing in any of those places of any interest, she moved on to the large mahogany desk, where she pulled out drawer after drawer, running a cursory eye over the contents, until she came to a drawer near the bottom, which she yanked out so hard, it fell to the floor with a hard thump.
Picking it up and sliding it halfway back into its former place, Ys drew in her breath sharply at what she saw inside.
Taking up a pretty glass dagger with an elaborate twisted hilt, she turned it over in her hand, examining it curiously, being careful all the while not to touch the blade, for fear it had been treated with some deadly poison. Looking further through the drawer, she brought out bright silk scarves, long jeweled hat-pins, a silver pistol so tiny it might fit entire in the palm of her hand, and even (Ys could not help smiling grimly at the irony) a small clear phial containing a crystalline substance which appeared to be salt. It is a perfect treasure-trove, Ys thought, supposing you happen to be an assassin!
Underneath it all, she finally unearthed the box made of ebony and palisander woods which Sophie had mentioned in her letter. Ys opened it eagerly and looked inside—and then made a small sound of disappointment. It was only a fan, a frivolous brise fan of painted ivory. Spreading the sticks, she could not help noticing how very curiously and delicately they had been painted. But why had Sophie written that she might find it useful? For a moment, Ys wondered if her aunt had lost her senses. Or was it—was it merely that Sophie meant to tease and torment her, in revenge for her beloved Valentine’s death?
But no, she decided, cruelty for its own sake was quite unlike the gentle Sophie. Ys considered the fan for another moment. She had heard of such trinkets with a deadly secret—a blade concealed somewhere inside, every bit as sharp and dangerous as the glass dagger. But after several minutes examining the fan, she was forced to admit that it seemed perfectly harmless. She dropped it back into its case, was about to toss it carelessly in the drawer—when she changed her mind.
Sophie must have meant something. Ys had no time right now to unravel that meaning, but if she took the fan back to Lindenhoff with her, she might eventually be able to puzzle out its secret. Concluding that this would be best, she slipped the slender ebony case inside her bodice between her gown and her corset, and reached out to close the drawer.
Then she changed her mind once more. Picking up the dainty glass dagger and wrapping it carefully in one of the silken scarves, she slid it up inside her sleeve.
49
Penmorva, Catwitsen—21 Pastoral, 6538
“Raith,” said Sir Bastian, stepping forward to shake the Leveller by the hand. “I had thought you still in Luden.”
“As I thought you still in Mountfalcon. It is good to find a friend here, so unexpectedly. But allow me to present my companions: Mr. Lucius Guilian, late of Winterscar, and his bride.”
If Sir Bastian saw anything strange in this abbreviated introduction, he did not mention it. A round of further introductions, of eager questions and hurried explanations followed. At last, Raith asked to be shown the man who had been carrying the emerald pocket-watch.
He followed Wilrowan into the next room, and the others all trailed behind. Kneeling down on the hickory planks and turning over the body, Raith studied the face carefully. In death, Lord Flinx’s features had taken on a harder, more calculating cast, but there could be no doubt as to his identity. “It appears, Mr. and Mrs. Guilian, that I owe you both an apology, along with your immediate freedom.”
Tremeur was silent, but Luke stood glaring down at the corpse with a thousand different emotions at war inside of him. “It appears that somebody else owes me an apology,” he said, prodding one limp hand with the toe of his shoe. “I wanted to kill this man myself.”
Will bristled up at once. So much had happened, so much blood had been shed—and yet they were no closer, now, to finding the Mountfalcon Jewel. He was ready enough to take this opportunity to vent his frustration. He bared his teeth. “If that is so, then I am the one who has wronged you, sir. I am prepared to offer you immediate satisfaction.”
Luke raised a supercilious eyebrow. “Satisfaction from a one-armed man?” He indicated, with a gesture, Wilrowan’s bloody bandage.
Will’s good hand had strayed to the hilt of his rapier when Raith intervened. “I am under the impression, Captain Blackheart, that we have far more pressing business than any trifling quarrel between you and Mr. Guilian.”
Feeling only slightly ashamed of himself, Will bowed coldly to Luke, and Lucius responded in kind. Meanwhile, the Leveller began a swift and efficient search through Lord Flinx’s pockets, extracting all of the papers—including the diplomatic passport which had brought the Prime Minister so far.
“This may prove useful,” he said, slipping the passport into a pocket inside his dark cloak. “And I think it would be best if no one is able to identify this body—which might only serve to inflame an already tense political situation.”
He rose quickly to his feet, and addressed the company. “There is a decent inn on the outskirts of town. Perhaps we should adjourn there, so the ladies may refresh themselves, and we can all meet together to plan our next move.”
There was agreement all around, and the entire party left the warehouse and returned to the street. The bodies of Lord Flinx and the unnamed Grant they elected to leave behind, on the Leveller’s advice.
“It should give the local authorities something to wonder about,” said Raith, climbing into his carriage and taking up the reins. “Though considering all of the problems here and abroad, I hardly think they will concern themselves over much with the death of an unknown man.” He nodded at Luke, who was handing Tremeur up to the other seat. “It will be another of those historical mysteries, Mr. Guilian—the kind in which you seem to delight.”
Luke laughed bitterly. “One I am happy to leave unsolved. It is a fitting end for such an ambitious man: an unmarked grave in a foreign country. I can only regret that I wasn’t the one who had the honor of putting him there.”
While Luke engaged a room at the inn and took the exhausted and over-wrought Tremeur upstairs for some much needed rest, the others met together in a private parlor with a view of the harbor, where everyone but the Leveller ate a light meal and they all discussed what ought to be done next.
Where the Chaos Machine was now, it was impossible to tell; it had passed beyond their ability to detect its presence. Yet everything they knew pointed to some ultimate destination in the far north. Whoever had the Jewel now would be travelling overland, as a voyage by sea involved too many risks—the worst one being that the Jewel could be lost forever at the bottom of the sea. “But if we booked a passage ourselves,” said Raith, “we might arrive in the north a little behind or even just before this Lady Sophronispa.”
After much debate, it was decided that Sir Bastian would take the pocket-watch back to Rijxland, while Raith accompanied Lili, Wilrowan, and Blaise on their voyage.
“You are as fit to advise Lilliana as I am,” said Sir Bastian, finally yielding his place to the Leveller. “And far better suited to rapid tr
avel. I must resign myself to assuming what appears to be the easier task.”
Raith nodded solemnly. “I will give you a letter for the Crown Princess, explaining just how you came by the Rijxlander Jewel. That should serve to spare you any awkward questions.”
Excusing himself from the company, he went in search of pen, ink, paper, and sealing wax. Being provided with these by the innkeeper, he sat down in the coffee-room, pulled out his own penknife and a little stone jar filled with pounce that he always carried with him, and proceeded to write out the promised letter. He was just finishing up when Lucius sauntered in and asked to know what had been decided.
Raith described the situation briefly. “But if you mean to ask what is to happen to you, that is entirely your own decision. You are free to go wherever you will.”
“Does that include accompanying you on your journey north?”
“It does,” the Leveller replied, as he folded and sealed the letter, “if you are not heartily sick of my company by now—as I had rather assumed you were.”
“That is beside the point,” Luke answered coldly. “You say there may be some disaster brewing in Winterscar or Nordfjall, and I agree. It may even be that my home in Tarnburgh is the center of the trouble. If so, I may be needed there. I believe that by travelling with you, I will arrive much sooner than I might otherwise. You have a way of—removing all obstacles in your path.”
“As you say,” Raith answered calmly. He picked up his letter and rose from his seat. “And perhaps someday you may even forgive me for what has passed between us—forgive Captain Blackheart, too, for killing a man you so ardently wished to see dead.”
Luke glared up at him, far from mollified. “I suppose you will say that Lord Flinx is just as dead this way as if I had killed him myself.”
Raith paused with one hand on the brass door-knob, and considered a moment before he spoke. “I might say that, if I wished to annoy you.” He opened the door and stepped over the threshold. “As I do not wish to do anything of the sort, I think I must be content saying nothing at all.”
The Queen's Necklace Page 50
