Masque (The Two Monarchies Sequence)

by W. R. Gingell

  “It would be less than useful to use my eyeglass recorder with you, Lady Farrah,” said the earl dryly. “I have found, much to my dismay, that you invariably tell the truth; and there’s no leverage to be got from someone who so persistently and skilfully tells the truth!”

  It was my turn to incline my head ironically.

  I did so, and inquired: “I presume that you recorded something of use?”

  “Yes and no. There is a section of very great interest, preceded by a few minutes of confusion in double. As a matter of fact, I took the double frame to be a fault in my calculations for the machine’s calibration until I realised that the two frames were of entirely different rooms.”

  “Is that possible?”

  “Strictly speaking, no. And yet, there it was. Do you know what interested me the most, Lady Farrah?”

  “I can’t imagine!”

  “In almost every one of the frames that was doubled, you were the focus of one set of pictures. In fact, it’s what led me to agree to this meeting with you.”

  I remembered poor little Papa’s impression that his vision had doubled on the night of the masque, and demanded: “Do you mean to tell me that you have a visual recording of the murderer?”

  “I have a visual recording of the murder,” corrected the earl, a little smugly.

  “The pince-nez were facing outward,” I nodded. “You’re intimating that the murderer somehow took over your body momentarily, while leaving you fully conscious. That’s the second impossible thing you’ve told me: would you care to try for a third?”

  “Have you travelled into the further reaches of Lacuna, Lady Farrah? Not just the outlying villages, but to the tribes in the rainforests?”

  “I’ve met the tribal leaders once or twice,” I told him, wondering where this particular rabbit trail was leading. “I’ve not travelled into the rainforests, however.”

  “They have a tradition there,” said that well-travelled man, and I fancied that he was just a touch more smug. “They call it the soulstealer: something with which to threaten naughty children. While I was travelling through this area, I was fortunate enough to meet with a very old man who supposedly remembered the last time a soulstealer passed through his tribe. He didn’t want to talk about it: seemed to think that it might bring the soulstealer back to ravage the village again. I managed to convince him otherwise, but only after multiple shots of maska, by which time the venerable old man was nearly too drunk to be taken seriously. He told me that the soulstealer would appear in multiple forms, usually in the guise of one or the other of their neighbours, and consequently turning them against one another.”

  “The Lacunan tribespeople have herbal remedies they use to see through that kind of magic,” I pointed out. I didn’t like to see him so self-satisfied.

  “Something I mentioned to the tribesman also,” nodded the earl. “He told me that the remedies don’t work against a soulstealer.”

  “Of course they don’t,” I sighed. “What more is there to know of this soulstealer? I find myself rather interested.”

  “I fancied you might. From what the other tribesmen said, the soulstealer visits every fifty years or so, murders his way through a village, and vanishes again. The murders are all similarly bloody.”

  “You’re speaking of a killer with a need,” I said, frowning. “A need for the act of murder, or a need that causes him to murder, do you fancy?”

  “I think it might be a little of both. Most interesting still is the fact that the soulstealer appears not to be Lacunan.”

  My upper lip curled. “How would they know, if he changes his appearance so often?”

  “It was not something I was told,” said the earl. “It was merely a conjecture of mine, arising from the fact that the tribesman refer to the murderer variously as the soulstealer and the Ghost. Lacunans are not known for their pale skin tone.”

  “I beg your pardon, my lord, but you seem to be alluding to a single murderer. When the attacks are spanning what seems to be multiple decades, I find myself wondering if that is entirely credible? Even if we allow that our murderer did visit a far flung Lacunan tribe some fifty or more years ago, he must be so old as to make it doubtful that he could walk further than the distance between bed and wheelchair by now!”

  “Lady Farrah, the further into this tangle I find myself, the less any of this seems credible. I do know that magic involving blood and violence is never for any good purpose, however.”

  “I take that you refer to youth and power spells.”

  He nodded gravely. “I don’t think that the murders have a purpose beyond forming part of a spell, but the murderer is undoubtedly mad.”

  “Quite mad,” I assured him, repressing a shiver. The earl was wrong about one thing, however: I was quite sure the murders had more than one purpose. One would hate to seem conceited, of course, but one couldn’t escape the conclusion, garnered from little pieces of information gained here and there, that the murders – or at least the murder of Raoul – had been to attract my attention. It wasn’t a comforting thought, and I found myself grateful for even the slapdash protection of Keenan’s dirty little spellball.

  “I suppose that you’re willing to give up the recording to the investigation?”

  “A gesture of my goodwill,” said the earl expansively. He slid a small, pen-like object from his waistcoat pocket and passed it carefully to me. “Point it at the wall and press the button for the picture. When you’re finished, press the button again. The picture is quite convincing, I believe. Lord Pecus is a knowledgeable practitioner of non-magical alternatives: he’ll know what it is he’s seeing.”

  “I’m glad to find you so confident,” I said, a little amused. The earl was being hunted on charges of treason, which held a maximum penalty of death, and he was still playing the fine gentleman. I couldn’t help but like him.

  “With information so valuable, I should have expected to find you dead! My informants so far have had a distressing tendency to become dead before they become voluble enough to be very much help.”

  “I’ve taken precautions,” the earl said shortly.

  “And Louisa?”

  “That was the bargain I made with your enterprising little sister when she first broached the matter of a meeting between us. What a determined young lady! And how very alike you both are! She pointed out that she had no need to make bargains with me when she could simply have me arrested- purely for my information, I imagine, since she did nothing of the sort. She has a little bauble I made especially for Louisa.”

  “May I assume that this bauble is of nonmagical construct?”

  “Certainly,” said the earl loftily. “That, Lady Farrah, is the way of the future! I shall not trouble you by explaining how the thing works, but you may be certain that it does work. I can personally attest to the fact.”

  “How very gratifying for you!” I remarked, unable to prevent the slight edge of mockery to my voice. The earl, however, took it in good part, and merely grinned a roguish grin at me.

  “Exactly so, my lady! However, as I don’t particularly like the idea of spending any longer on the streets than is strictly necessary, I will be so ungentlemanly as to leave you to your own means of returning to Pecus Manor, and depart from whence I came.”

  “Where can I find you with an answer from the king?”

  “An advertisement,” said the earl. Suspicious little man! He didn’t trust me not to have him summarily arrested.

  “An advertisement placed in the personal column of the Galhooley Rag should do nicely, I think. Address it to Cedric, with the information that his uncle has sold the mare.”

  “Any particular mare?” I enquired, with a touch of amusement.

  “The chestnut, Lady Farrah,” the earl said, with a malicious gleam to his eyes. “The chestnut.”

  The streets had become rowdier by the time I left the fountain in search of Susan, and I found my hand inching insensibly toward the slit in my pocket that allowed acc
ess to my little dagger. It would, of course, be exciting to have occasion to use the pretty little toy, but I couldn’t help feeling that such an altercation would leave me in a state of disarray not at all consistent with my dignity. Adding to my general disinclination for a scrap was the fact that the men now staggering out of the public houses all around seemed to travel in packs, and it was likely that I would have more than one assailant to deal with in the event of a struggle.

  In consequence, I kept rather more to the shadows than I had previously, feeling my way along the shopfronts to aid my balance and realizing crossly as I did so that many of the young men of my acquaintance whom I would normally have enlisted to walk me home were now being disgracefully drunk in cafés and gutters across the road. A few horselords of an unknown regiment, vaguely familiar to me, were being cheerfully sick behind the early morning delivery of fish belonging to one of the cafés, accompanied by two Civetan guardsmen who were laughing at them in loud good humour, but were barely able to stand themselves. Further along the street I passed a couple of other young bucks who were not so drunk, supporting a third who was, and who hung in their arms with his sandy head dropped lackadaisically on his chest. It was with some surprise and a little trepidation that I recognised the drunk to be Lord Topher. Had he heard about his young wife, then? If not, I certainly didn’t want to be the one to tell him, especially when he was in that condition. In the purest self-interest, therefore, I hastened my step in an attempt to gain the corner before the little group could see me. In this, I wasn’t entirely successful, for as I darted for the corner, I distinctly heard him burble: “Lady Izz-bella! Many – happy – congrat’lations!”

  So Susan’s rumours had been spreading, after all. He seemed to find the thought amusing, because he burst into a fit of giggling, and I cast my eyes heavenward as I hurried around the corner.

  Susan was right where I expected her to be. Rather, the buggy was, the horse stamping impatiently and tugging at suspiciously slack reins. A cold finger ran down my spine, for there was a lumpy sort of bulge in the driver’s seat that was glowing blue.

  I caught my breath on a tiny sob and darted forward, startling the horse, which reared at me but for once failed entirely to frighten me. Susan was slumped sideways in her seat, buzzing with blue fire and emitting a low, grating hum that set my teeth on edge. Her head was in one piece and where it ought to be, but her chestnut curls had been shaken loose of their tidy confinement and were tumbling around her face, making her appear younger and more vulnerable than usual. I let out the breath I had been holding in a shaking rush, because her chest still rose and fell: she was only unconscious.

  I didn’t dare pick her up with the blue flames licking about her, but by the application of artful shoving I managed to prop her more or less upright until I was able to take the reins myself. The horse seemed to understand that I meant business, for it neither refused to move or attempted to drag me off in an alternate direction of its own choosing, and a very few moments later I was turning the buggy unskilfully but swiftly down the road that ran alongside the horselord barracks, thinking furiously.

  It didn’t seem likely that any of the drunks I had passed tonight could have done this to Susan: even a practised and determined magic user would have found it difficult to take her by surprise.

  No, the murderer had made an attempt on Susan tonight, and for some reason had been unable to prevail. I shrewdly suspected that his failure had much to do with the unpleasant humming at present growing less around Susan’s lax body, and remembered the earl’s remark that Susan had something of his for Louisa. I hoped, savagely, that the device had given the murderer a very nasty shock.

  I leapt from the buggy at the entrance of the barracks and rang the bell vigorously three times in quick succession, unwilling to be patient. A sleepy horselord who was unfamiliar to me opened the peephole and showed me a pair of bleary eyes through the rectangle.

  “Play your tricks elsewhere, chicky,” he said, eyes crinkling with a yawn.

  I gave him an awful Look and said coldly: “You will fetch Emmett and Miryum, and kindly address me as my lady!”

  His eyes widened in sudden recognition and dismay. I could imagine that his mouth opened once or twice in the silence, but the door hid his lower face from my view; and at last he said, in a strained tone: “Yes, m’lady. Sorry, m’lady.”

  He didn’t attempt to stammer out an explanation, which was sensible of him, and if it hadn’t been for Susan lying unconscious behind me I could almost have laughed at his consternation. Within a few moments the door was hastily unbolted and flung back to reveal Emmett, who strode out clad only in his blue horselord breeches, shaking his head like a dog.

  Oh. So when Susan mentioned that he was snoring, she was referring to the fact that she had worked a spell on him, not that she had slipped out. The spell must have failed the moment Susan was rendered unconscious.

  “Where is she?” he demanded.

  “The buggy. No, Emmett, the fire!”

  “It doesn’t hurt me anymore,” he said shortly, picking up Susan as if she was a child instead of a healthily built young woman. “She altered the spell for me. Did you tell her to spell me to sleep, Belle?”

  “Of course not!”

  “What happened?”

  “I don’t know. She was like this when I found her. I was hoping you might be able to tell me more.”

  “Unconscious. She’ll come round in a few minutes.”

  Emmett shouldered past the horselord who kept the door and I followed close behind, almost colliding with Miryum, who looked briefly and professionally at Susan’s pale face. She didn’t look groggy in the least.

  “I’m glad to see that Susan didn’t put you all under wholesale,” I remarked.

  Miryum smiled grimly. “Emmett’s room is beside Susan’s. I suppose she thought he would be the most likely to hear her. She’ll be fine, Belle. It looks like a simple case of backlash to me, and not too severe at that.”

  “I’m relieved to hear it,” I said, breathing a little easier. I opened the door to Susan’s room for Emmett and smoothed the pillow under her head as he laid her on the bed.

  “You’re looking less fine than usual,” Miryum said, in dry amusement. She was lounging in the doorway. “Should we know what you were up to?”

  “Possibly not,” I said. “You wouldn’t like it.”

  “I suppose that’s why she felt the need to spell me to sleep,” growled Emmett. There was an angry light in his eyes that suggested Susan would have some explaining to do when they were alone.

  My lips curved in a half smile, but I merely said: “I suppose so,” and turned my attention back to Susan, who had developed a line between her brows that suggested she wasn’t far from consciousness.

  Nor was she. She woke with a gasp and a start, and tried to sit up, but Emmett pushed her back down with one big hand. A moment later the blue flames flickered and died.

  Susan looked up at him cautiously, and said: “Hallo, lummox. I see you’re awake.”

  Emmett sat back and folded his arms across his massive chest.

  Susan’s eyes narrowed. “Oh, you’re giving me the silent treatment?”

  “What happened, Su?” I interrupted. They could fight this out by themselves later.

  “Your murderer tried to do away with me,” Susan said cheerfully. “Who knew, Belle? The earl really does know his stuff! I had my fire up already because I knew it couldn’t possibly be Emmett, so he couldn’t physically touch me. But whew! that stuff he threw at me was strong! The earl’s thingummy buzzed and threw it back at the swine, but I copped a nasty backlash as well. I don’t remember much after that.”

  Emmett frowned. “He looked like me?”

  “Yes. Don’t worry, lummox, I knew right away that it wasn’t you: he was smiling at me like an idiot. Got my fire up just in time.”

  Emmett opened his mouth, presumably to protest the assertion that he never smiled, but just then Susan’s face took o
n the preoccupied look that signals an incoming personal commlink among the magically inclined, and she lost interest in him.

  “Oooh,” she said thoughtfully, after a short pause. “Belle, I think you’d better get home. The Beast Lord is awake and a bit ticked off, by all accounts. Vadim seems to think he’s breaking furniture.”

  I found that all eyes had turned involuntarily upon me and became defensive.

  “I assure you all that it’s no fault of mine if Lord Pecus is damaging his furnishings! I’m sure Vadim is overstating the case: Lord Pecus is older than three, after all!”

  None of them appeared to be convinced, so I heaved a longsuffering sigh, and said: “Oh well, someone had better drive me home, then.”

  Susan couldn’t forebear to remark that I seemed to have made it safely to the barracks with her, but Miryum grinned and said lazily that she would be happy to drive me, for which I was very thankful. I felt that driving a buggy was a feat not to be repeated more than once a night, or at least not by myself.

  I found the manor in uproar. Vadim was waiting for me by the front door with the whispered intelligence that Lord Pecus was on the second floor, staggering grimly toward my suite. The Dory Brown, enough to fell an ox, hadn’t worked quite quickly enough to knock out Lord Pecus before he realised what was happening. He’d had time to work a small, desperate piece of magic, which although it did not save him from falling asleep, mitigated the effects to such an extent that he had been able to drag himself out into the hall some forty-five minutes later: from whence, if I were not mistaken, he was roaring at the servants.

  Vadim gave her report with a worried face, and disappeared gratefully at my order. I wondered how frightened she had been, and felt a sharp pang of conscience. I didn’t stay to remove my cloak, but ran lightly up the stairs to find Lord Pecus, maskless and shirtless, surrounded by astonished servants who were alternately trying to assist him to stand and convince him that Lady Farrah was safe in her suite.

  “Safe, but not in my suite,” I said briskly. “Alexander, I am perfectly whole: there is no need to shout down the house! You’re frightening the servants.”