Masque (The Two Monarchies Sequence)

by W. R. Gingell

  At a glance, the blue room was empty. A careless guest had spilled a glass of rose wine all over the lovely shaggy rug peeping from behind the massive settee, staining the luxurious pile a dark, blood red.

  I made a sound of annoyance. It was enough to make a person cry, that beautiful rug spoiled, when just a little prompt attention could have lifted the stain right away.

  “We’d better clean that up first,” I said decidedly. Lord Topher looked surprised, but followed me obediently to the scene of the crime. I stepped carefully over the stain on the carpet, which looked a little too thick and gluggy for a really good wine, and rounded the settee to judge the extent of the damage.

  At first I couldn’t quite comprehend what I saw. Through a buzzing in my ears I thought I saw more wine: much, much more wine, splattered across the back of the cream settee, and the sprawling body of the guest who must have fainted and spilled it all. Then something turned over in my mind with a nasty lurch, and I could see the bloody pulp where Raoul’s head had been- Raoul without a doubt, sashed and uniformed as he was. On the wall and the settee back were myriad glistening little patches of something nasty that I could only assume were particles of his brain matter. I didn’t kneel to check for life signs: there didn’t seem to be much point.

  Instead, I turned to Lord Topher, who was peering over my shoulder with a kind of ghoulish enjoyment, and said: “Fetch Lady Quorn, if you please. Don’t bring her in.”

  He looked torn between leaving me by myself and doing as I had told him, but evidently decided it was safer doing as he was told. I shut the door behind him and then turned to survey the room, my fingers grasping somewhat convulsively at my skirts. The tall glass doors were swinging open and a fresh, post-rain breeze was beginning to circulate through the room, lifting a pungent odour I didn’t recognise into the air. The murderer could not have been gone long: I hoped a little sickly that he was not planning on coming back.

  “Hold on, Raoul,” I said. “Help is coming.”

  Not that it would do him much good, of course; but it would do me a great deal of good to have someone else in the room with me. Unless that someone was the murderer, of course.

  Fortunately, before I had time to frighten myself thoroughly, I heard Delysia’s voice outside the door. I was impressed: Lord Topher had been very quick. The door opened a little more swiftly than I expected, and I only just had time to sweep back to it and bundle Delysia out before she saw anything dreadful.

  “What did I tell you!” I hissed at Lord Topher, who looked apologetic. “Lady Quorn is not to go into that room!”

  “Why should I not go into my own room?” Delysia demanded. “If you’re minded to be mysterious, Isabella, I shall tell my footmen to remove you. If there’s anything I can’t bear, it’s a mystery!”

  “Delysia, listen!” I commanded, seizing her by the shoulders. “Get Lord Quorn, Melchior, and if you can, someone who knows about magic.”

  Lady Quorn’s eyes went very big. “Isabella, what have you done?” she squeaked.

  “I? If you are insinuating that I am a troublemaker, Delysia, may I remind you of a certain affair at Trenthams-”

  “Never mind that now!” Delysia said hastily. “Very well, if you’re going to be like that about it, there’s no more to be said. I shall fetch Harroll and the others.”

  I huffed out a breath of relief as she floated haughtily off, and ducked back into the room. A little to my relief, Lord Topher followed me, looking around with great interest.

  “It’s different now that you know, isn’t it?”

  He was right. It made the whole room seem different.

  “He must have gone out through the garden,” I said absently. “The murderer, I mean.”

  I was feeling a little strange. From where I was standing I could see Raoul’s feet, and tiny gobbets of brain in the pooled blood. I looked away, and found that Lord Topher had wandered over to the glass doors.

  “Maybe he’s still out there,” he said. He looked too excited, and I felt a stab of unease. “I’ll see if I can find him!”

  “Lord Topher!” I found that I was speaking to thin air, and threw my hands up in exasperation. A child such as Lord Topher would be no match for a killer who had so violently murdered someone of Raoul’s physique and skill. I hoped fervently that the murderer was long gone: I would very much prefer not to have two dead bodies on our hands tonight.

  Greatly to my relief, Melchior appeared after only a few more moments, entering quietly and unobtrusively with Lord and Lady Quorn close behind him. Following them, much more noticeably, was Lord Pecus. I don’t think that man could sidle into a room if he tried.

  Melchior said swiftly: “What’s wrong, Carrots?”

  “Keep Delysia back!” I said, a little fiercely. I was feeling decidedly sick, and Lord Pecus’ presence unnerved me. Why was the man here?

  Delysia was looking slightly pale, and I realised that she could see the blood from where she was standing. Lord Quorn gently sat her down on a small, elegant chair by the door and she averted her eyes to the far wall, as far from the sight of blood as she could.

  The gentlemen proceeded around the edge of the settee, Melchior looking back to ask quietly: “Raoul?”

  “It’s his uniform. And the, ah- corpse is the right size.”

  There was a rattling at the glass doors that made the men turn as one, and Lord Topher burst into the room, his hair dishevelled. His frock coat had come unbuttoned in his eagerness and large wet spots on his red velvet waistcoat suggested that the rain had begun again without my noticing.

  Lord Pecus frowned, Melchior looked quizzically at me, and Lord Quorn turned back to the body, uninterested.

  “Lord Topher was with me when I discovered the body,” I told them.

  Lord Pecus’ mask still showed a frown, but Melchior only nodded.

  “Need a bit of air, Carrots?” he asked casually.

  “Mm. Perhaps,” I said thoughtfully. I was glad for the arm that Melchior put around my waist, since my legs showed a woeful tendency to shake as we stepped onto the terrace. The rain had ceased and was no threat to my coiffure, I noticed, rather absently glad about it. We walked leisurely down the terrace until we reached the rhododendrons, where I proceeded, in the most refined and ladylike way imaginable, to empty the contents of my stomach into the garden bed.

  “That’s better, Carrots,” Melchior said bracingly, the beast. He seemed to have been expecting it, because he was holding my plait back for me, and rubbing my back in a brotherly way.

  “Speak for yourself!” I croaked, sitting back on my heels and hoping fervently that the paroxysms had ceased.

  Melchior laughed unfeelingly as he helped me to stand again, and offered me his handkerchief.

  “If you ever tell anyone about this,” I threatened through the handkerchief; “You will be very, very sorry.”

  “Behold me, terrified,” Melchior said, mockingly. “Which should I be more afraid of, your hatpin or your parasol?”

  “Don’t underestimate the efficacy of a well placed parasol,” I said darkly, as we approached the glass door again. I re-entered the room with my head held high, and Melchior sauntered after me casually, hands stuffed in his pockets as if he were the scaff-and-raff instead of a royal personage.

  “Nothing to see out there,” he told Lord Quorn. “No footprints, no disturbance. Any traces, Pecus?”

  Of course. He was the magic user I had asked for.

  “Lady Farrah and Lord Topher’s signatures are around the body, but no others. The curse used to kill Sir Raoul is distinctive magic; dark, but not familiar.” Lord Pecus’ mask had gone blank, the eyes hooded. “He died only minutes before we got here. I’ll be able to tell you more in time.”

  Melchior nodded. “Any detractors of the military merger, Quorn?”

  “An anti-international group and a few individuals.” Lord Quorn blinked through his glasses, then removed and polished them, more from habit than need. It was a wonder he h
adn’t worn the glass away. “The group isn’t violent, and none of the individuals have the kind of magic it takes to do this sort of thing.”

  “Can it be kept quiet?” It surprised me to find that Melchior was looking at Lord Pecus instead of Ambassador Quorn.

  Lord Pecus hesitated, then nodded. “I’ll put a geas on the entrances, with a diversion clause to misdirect attention. I’ll need access to this room for the rest of the morning.”

  Ambassador Quorn, who was polishing his glasses again, said: “Ring for anything you need, my lord. If Lady Farrah would consent to accompany me back into the ballroom, I’m sure your majesty would- er-”

  “Oh, yes, I’ll keep an eye on Pecus,” agreed Melchior cheerfully, which was not what the harried Ambassador had been hinting at. “At the official inquest we can note that the investigation was carried out by delegates of both countries.”

  “Ah, yes- er, of course, your majesty. Lady Farrah, would you be so kind as to-” he stopped short, bewildered, because I was already helping Delysia to her feet without waiting for the request. The poor man really was having an amazingly awful night.

  Delysia looked distinctly tearful, poor dear; and in good earnest, too. I can always tell when she’s putting on the effect to worry Harroll and when she’s serious, because her nose tends to go red when she is really crying.

  “Powder room, Delysia,” I said briskly, steering her toward the door and significantly touching a fingertip to my own nose. She gave a tiny squeak of dismay, hands flying to cover the afflicted area, and forgot about the nasty sight of Raoul’s blood long enough for me to steer her through the party-goers without suspicion or further tears. Rather to my relief, it looked as though the party were beginning to break up; I heard the faint, conflicting calls of various footmen for Earl Somebody-or-Other’s carriage, and demands of a chair for Lady Such-and-such through the main doors, and to my practised eye the room was getting a little thin of company.

  Delysia had brightened by the time we entered the powder room, but she still had a faintly crushed air which suggested she would have unpleasant dreams tonight. I made a mental note to intercept the maid who brought her bedtime chocolate: a nice little sleeping draught ought to do the trick just nicely.

  I dried Delysia’s eyelashes as carefully as her painstakingly applied lash tint required and then surveyed my own appearance doubtfully while she powdered her nose. I made myself up in a more subtle fashion than the exotic, colourful way Delysia liked to affect, in creamy colours that blended with my clear skin and made it difficult to tell that I was, in fact, painted. I had every intention of nosing my way back into the blue saloon, and I would need every fortification that being well dressed and well made-up could give me before I dared to go back into Lord Pecus’ presence. It was irritating of the man to be so unnerving, I thought crossly, contenting myself with reapplying a touch of lightly tinted lipcolour. I was used to men being a little in awe of me. Obviously I would have to work harder at cultivating my inscrutable air if I was to gain the upper hand with Lord Pecus. In the meantime, face colour and a pretty dress would have to suffice.

  “There!” I stood back and surveyed myself again. “Will I do, Delysia?”

  Delysia, distracted by her own administrations of rosebud pink lipcolour, murmured: “Do for what?”

  “I’m going to see what Melchior and Lord Pecus are up to,” I said determinedly, straightening my green satin bodice with a hearty tug. “I do not approve of the way we poor females were shoved out of the room.”

  “Isabella, you cannot call him Melchior!” Delysia squeaked, showing me a shocked face.

  “That’s His Royal Highness King Consort of New Civet to you!” I said, with a wicked grin. “Am I presentable?”

  “A lower bodice and more colour would suit you better,” opined Delysia, forgetting outrage in lieu of more important considerations. “You should try that gorgeous new gold-dust lip rouge, it would suit you perfectly.”

  “Nonsense!” I said, in a businesslike manner. I did not choose to tell her that I had had a tiny tub of the stuff tucked away in a drawer beneath my underthings for quite some time now. It did something for my hair that made it seem less red and more like gold and flame, but I had never quite been able to bring myself to wear it out in public. I found myself wishing I had done so tonight.

  “Your guests are beginning to leave,” I said to Delysia, peeping around the powder room door. “And about time, too. Wish me luck!”

  I left her still expostulating and swept back to the blue saloon. Or at least, I tried to. The geas on the door kept me impersonally at a distance, much to my annoyance: what did Lord Pecus mean by trying to keep me out with the rest! A little meditation was enough to make me certain that it was Melchior who had arranged that particular drawback, so I didn’t waste time trying to force the issue. Instead, I took myself off into the gardens and began a sally on the back defences with a hairpin and an ever-so-slightly magical thumbtack. My abilities as regards magic have never been particularly elegant, but no one has ever been able to say they are not effective; and in a very few minutes I was letting myself into the blue saloon by way of the garden entrance.

  There I stopped, with my hand on the doorknob, because Lord Pecus was the sole occupant of the room. Obviously poor Raoul no longer counted, and Melchior had vanished; there was certainly no sign of Lord Topher.

  Lord Pecus was kneeling by the body, closely inspecting Raoul’s sash with a tiny brush and a pair of tweezers. When I entered he looked up with what I thought was a slight curve to his porcelain lips.

  “Lady Farrah,” he nodded to me, and added with that lingering smile: “Melchior said you would be back. I thought the geas might stop you, but he said you have a way of insinuating yourself into proceedings.”

  I thought it best not to reply to such outright provocation, and contented myself merely with pointing out: “I believe your back wards need repairing, my lord.”

  He laughed, low and soft. “Thank you, Lady Farrah: I’ll see to it. Will you assist me?”

  I took an instinctive step backward through the door, unwilling to be any nearer to Raoul. “My lord-”

  “Do I frighten you, lady?” Lord Pecus asked quietly. His mask had gone blank.

  I stepped fully into the room and shut the door behind me with some asperity. “My lord, I have seen many horrible things tonight, and believe me, your face was certainly not the worst of them. How may I assist you?”

  “Sir Raoul has something sewn into his sash,” Lord Pecus explained, with the grace to look a little ashamed. He paused as if expecting my enlightenment to be immediate. It wasn’t. I may have some skill at reading faces, but this does not extend to mind reading.

  “And?” I prompted. I fancied that he looked a little sheepish.

  “My fingers are too big,” he admitted. “Your fingers are conveniently slender, Lady Farrah.”

  “Of course,” I said briskly, though I felt anything but brisk. I was not at all anxious to see again the bloody red pulp where Raoul’s head had been. As I approached, I heard the quiet whisper of silk, and found that Lord Pecus had covered the remains of Raoul’s head with what was undoubtedly a magically treated silk cloth. No blood seeped through the fresh, creamy material, and the sharp, salty scent of blood dissipated somewhat. I looked searchingly at Lord Pecus, but his mask was expressionless.

  “It was distracting me,” he explained.

  I stepped carefully over the pool of swiftly congealing blood without looking too closely at it, and sank gracefully – or at least, so I hoped – to my knees beside Lord Pecus. From there I could inspect the sash narrowly. It was a wide, dashing one in crimson, double-braided with gold in the best Civetan tradition. A length of the braiding had been unpicked by a skillful hand, and close by the shoulder a little bulge could be seen. I felt a cold premonition of trouble: secret pockets are always a headache when it comes to international intrigue.

  “I tried to get at it with these,” Lord Pecus said
, ruefully displaying his pair of tweezers. “It went further in, of course, and I don’t want to unpick any further for fear of damaging the paper.”

  “It is paper, then?”

  My heart sank a little. Not Raoul! Lord Pecus nodded unhesitatingly, his silence asking a question, but since I chose to become very busy easing out the piece of paper, I did not have to answer the question. Secret pockets and concealed documents invariably have a single explanation: treason. I didn’t want to think it of Raoul, but believing people to be trustworthy has never made them any more obliged to be so, and there is no good hiding one’s head in the sand, after all.

  A few deft twists, a couple admonitory tugs, and the folded paper was out. My fingers itched to open it, but I said with correct, albeit reluctant, compunction: “Where is Melchior?”

  “He thought it best to ah – dispose – of Lord Topher,” said Lord Pecus, in a bland way that suggested he could think of a more pleasing method of disposal than the one Melchior had employed.

  “Very right and proper,” I approved. Lord Topher over-enthusiastically overseeing the proceedings was just what we didn’t want.

  “He kept insisting that he had a claim to a dance with you. It became wearying.”

  “Well, that really is quite true,” I said fairmindedly. “What a good thing Melchior got rid of him! I suppose I shall have to dance with him next time we meet, but at least for now I’m safe.”

  “I thought that being a diplomat entailed the ability to say no without offending anyone,” Lord Pecus remarked, in what I considered to be a quarrelsome tone.

  “That,” I said firmly, “Is a common misconception. Most often it means having to say yes to things you’d rather not do. Somebody is always offended when you say no, no matter how nicely you say it. In fact, almost the only enjoyable thing about being a diplomat is the rare opportunity to make other people do what they don’t want to do.”

  Lord Pecus’ mask grinned, showing off a set of startlingly white, even, porcelain teeth. How did he manage that! “Lady Farrah, do you always speak so directly? I can’t help but feel that it’s not entirely ah, diplomatic.”