by Carol Berg
“Get out,” he yelled, reaching for the broken chair, as if to ready it for a new target. “Do your vile business and crawl back into your hole.”
CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO
4 CINQ 21 DAYS UNTIL THE ANNIVERSARY
“Will that be all, lord sir?”
Heurot shut the clothes chest after storing my clean If linen. It was the first he’d spoken that evening, which was entirely unlike the chatty young manservant. Before I’d gone to Eltevire, he’d habitually come to attend me in the evenings only after his other gentlemen were satisfied, lingering in my chamber to speak of such matters as his brothers and sisters in service, his latest reading from the chapbooks he picked up in the markets, and the progress of the giant pendulum the king was having constructed in the palace Rotunda. Perhaps he’d sensed my dismal mood.
“Not quite.” I handed him a sealed note and sixty kivrae. “Deliver this message to Secretary de Sain in the steward’s office right away. And I’d be most grateful if you’d have my new boots picked up from Tick the Cob bler before morning. I’ll be leaving Merona tomorrow early, and these bought on my last journey would better fit a twelve-year-old maiden with square feet.”
“Certainly, sir lord.” The youth accepted my missive for Henri, finalizing arrangements for the journey to Vernase, and slipped the coins into his tunic’s voluminous pocket. Then he bowed, as he’d never found necessary before, and backed awkwardly toward the door. But he bumped into the clothes chest, then stumbled over the horrid boots Ilario had bought me in Mattefriese to replace those lost at Eltevire. “I can fetch your new boots right now. Tick works late. Divine grace shine upon you, sir, sonjeur.”
“Divine grace, Heurot. Are you quite all right?” His behavior was altogether odd.
“Aye, lord sir. Definitely. Thank you for asking, lord . . . Sonjeur de Duplais.” After another jerky bow, he backed out of the door into the passage.
Amused and puzzled, I returned attention to my journal. Dipped my pen.
The door slammed shut, but tight breathing raised my eyes again.
“Will ye be back this time, sir, lord sir, sonjeur?” Heurot pressed his back to the closed door.
“Barring misfortune. Why? Are you sure you’re all right, lad? Speak up. And sir or sonjeur is quite enough.”
He stared down at the ugly Arabascan boots. “It’s just, I’ve heard . . . this disgrace . . . that the king’s so angry with ye, and dullard me didn’t even know ye were his kin, and I’ve been so free, joking and not acting properly respectful all these days. But I wanted to say, if I wasn’t to see ye again, that ye’ve been kind to me and ye don’t seem a lackwit or craven or mercenary at all. Only I didn’t know whether it was proper to speak of such.”
I suppressed a smile and a sigh of regret. Rumor progressed rapidly, as the king had foretold. More so after his destructive outburst of the morning. Yet rumor served.
“Ah, Heurot, my blood is so remotely related to His Majesty that his wolfhounds are more familiar to him, and more valued. Indeed, my efforts to remedy our distance have put him in a foul temper, and he’s sent me off on a wild errand, subordinate to the worst possible taskmaster.” I grimaced and shuddered.
Few would understand my early-evening pleasure at hearing that Dante would accompany me to Vernase. Where had I learned how to move a king to bend his neck to his wife’s whims? Sometimes I felt far older than two-and-thirty years.
“Yet I am at little personal risk, and ever hopeful to serve the crown honorably to forward my father’s Veil journey. Though it were well”—I beckoned the lad close and whispered—“if perhaps you did not proclaim my better qualities aloud. I’d not have you tainted should I fail to satisfy the royal pleasure.”
The lad tossed his yellow hair out of his widened eyes. “Aye, I see what ye mean. I’ll pray the holy saints to serve your honor and your . . . satisfyin’.”
“I could ask no more.”
Smiling, I returned to recording the results of my interview with Mage Orviene. I’d questioned him shortly after leaving the king’s study. The mage had offered me little new. Evidently, Adept Fedrigo was perpetually short of money, a matter Orviene did not wish to overemphasize, but feared might have sent the young man to the docks to gamble on the day of his purported murder. And no, the mage could not recall who had told him the story of the ill-fated tavern brawl. One of the palace servants, he thought. He would inquire and let me know. The city magistrate’s written report had portrayed the brawl as no different from any other in the history of Riverside taverns.
As before, Orviene impressed me as sincerely grieved about his assistant’s fate. He had not himself seen Fedrigo since shortly after I had first arrived at Castelle Escalon. When I mentioned our earlier encounter, and the suspicions he had voiced with regard to the Swan fire, he reiterated that he had no evidence of improprieties. But his eyes pointedly told me that his beliefs had not wavered. And that was that.
I hoped writing the details of the interview would grant me some marvelous insight, but not long after the palace bells rang eighth hour of evening watch, a footman delivered me a note, sealed without any device. Unsigned, its blockish characters set down ungracefully one by one, it comprised but one line: Friend, I await you in the heart of Escalon. Please.
“Hold!” I caught the messenger before he could disappear down the passage. “Who sent this?”
“Don’t know, sir. A lamp boy caught me as I was coming from supper. Said he was given it to be delivered to Sonjeur de Duplais. The donkey hadn’t asked on whose authority.”
I sent the fellow on his way and scoured the message as if the sparse words hid something I could not see. For a blood-marked man to venture out in answer to so enigmatic a request in these dangerous times was idiocy. Yet the sender could be Ilario, returned early from the country, or Dante, whom I had not seen since we parted ways on the road from Eltevire. Our meetings must be conducted with redoubled caution now I was so exposed. I had to go.
Hoping to arrive while the dusky light yet held, I sped through the north wing and down the back stair to the underground labyrinth that delivered servants speedily to the principal areas of the palace. The branch under the south wing and a damp slanting tunnel delivered me to the south gardens. The heart of Escalon was not found within the palace proper.
Before the current residence was built, and long before the current fashion of elaborate, precisely laid-out gardens and follies, some Sabrian queen had grown the escalon or garden maze for which the palace was named. Instead of common boxwood or privet, she had chosen colorful plantings of the wildlands—gorse and flowering broom, brilliant yellow nestled amid the budding scarlet of hibiscus, and thick growths of purple-flowered bougainvillea—to disguise those who trod the maze paths. In the center of it all she had built a fair summerhouse of rustic floors and latticed arches, rotted and replaced a dozen times through the decades.
Scents of damp earth, sweet gorse, and freshly trimmed grass hung thick as I hurried through the narrow paths, increasingly anxious. Neither Ilario or Dante would have written please.
Holding quiet at the edge of the clearing, I peered through the advancing gloom. A solitary figure, mostly obscured by the latticed walls and deeper twilight inside the elliptical summerhouse, moved slowly back and forth between the peaked ends, pausing at each terminus as if to stare outward through its open arch. When I estimated the person’s stature as considerably less than my own, I perused the note again and my heart leapt. Friend. Maura.
She halted her pacing the moment I raced up the steps. “Portier! Thank all angels you’ve come.” Anxiety and relief twined together like the flowering vines.
I longed to answer as my own self and not the creature of conspiracy’s invention. But the risks were far too high. Maura stood too near the quaking center of this earth tremor.
“Divine grace, damoselle,” I said, bowing and exposing my hand, keeping my distance, even as heart and conscience clamored to soothe her trouble. “So secret a su
mmons, lady?”
“I just couldn’t—But I needed to find out: All these rumors about Michel de Vernase, about you. These dreadful events: the fire on the Swan; Filamena, the sewing woman, found dead in her bed; Adept Fedrigo gone missing. This morning, Henri de Sain tells me you’ve been asking about shipping crates and—and corpses. This afternoon I see your awful bruises, and I hear you’ve driven the king to violence. And this evening I’m tasked to arrange transport for you and that vile mage to Vernase. Friend Portier, what is happening?” She sank onto a circular bench, as if spilling her worries had emptied her of strength. “You’re the only person I trust.”
Her quiet sob near broke my resolution. But caution shaped more lies and kept me away.
“I cannot imagine any reason for you to be afraid.” Hands clasped behind my back, I sauntered along the peripheries, underneath the gargoyles carved in the latticed arches. “Though you were wise to meet me in secret. My fool’s quest is like to get me hanged. I’ve uncovered some distinct coincidences that shine unfortunate light on the king’s friend, Conte Ruggiere, forcing His Majesty to decisions he detests. Not a path to royal favor. Forgive me for not revealing my—”
“Michel de Vernase would never betray his king.” My words had infused iron in her spine. “He is honorable, compassionate, devoted entirely to His Majesty’s service and to his family. This evidence cannot be credible. Tell me of it, Portier. Perhaps the answer’s somewhat of common knowledge that I could easily provide.”
This poorly disguised probing wormed its way beneath my skin like a glass splinter. I riposted. Lies came easy now. “A taverner at Seravain told me she posted a letter for the conte to a woman here at court. After so long, she couldn’t remember the name, but the conte had teased her that this woman ‘aided him in secret work.’ ”
Were I not listening with senses raised, I might have missed Maura’s sharp breath. The splinter speared deeper, chilling my heart.
I lowered my voice and tightened the snare. “As I came to consider that Michel might not be so much a friend to His Majesty as everyone assumed, this report turned my thoughts to Mage Gaetana, as it is well-known that sorcerers instigated last year’s assault on the king. Do you think it possible she is Michel’s female accomplice?”
“None of this is possible,” Maura said, in growing desperation. “How can circumstances appear so awful—so wicked—when no shred of ill intent lies back of them?”
I did not sense that she was answering my question. Press harder, Portier.
“What circumstances, lady? What do you know of the conte’s activities?” And then I played my vilest trump. “Should I fail to demonstrate some confirmation of my accusations soon . . . Damoselle, I do fear for my life. I had not reckoned on such staunch friendship between the king and a low-birthed warrior like Michel de Vernase.”
Maura’s cloak rustled. She moved as if to rise . . . but rocked back again . . . and forward . . . again and again. Her fear burgeoned to fill the summerhouse, and her mouth moved soundlessly, as if words battled to escape her control. Gods, what did she know? I held silent, afraid to remind her of my presence, lest she hold back.
“Gaetana asked me to send that crate to Mattefreise,” she said, the hoarse phrases scarce more than a whisper. “It never occurred to me to refuse. Members of the household send things all the time. But who ever will believe that? Because last year, in the month of Siece, I did receive a letter from Conte Ruggiere. He asked me to have some girls’ clothing made to specification and sent to Tigano in a large crate along with supplies for a tenday journey. Not two months past, I received two similar crates to be delivered to the temple. I did not question who the sender was or what the contents might be. I’ve always done favors for the conte. I believed—I still believe the conte is in hiding for good reason. I did not mention these incidents to anyone, as I had pledged him secrecy. I owe him—Sante Ianne! I ordered the banners made for the launch of the Destinne and arranged for their delivery to the Swan. It was my duty to relieve my mistress’s burden. But who will believe that?” Her rocking stilled and she pressed her fist to her heart. “Merciful saints, Portier, I suggested the wrestl—”
“Silence!” I blurted. Dismay tore through my layered deceptions like the Aspirant’s scarifying blades through flesh. “Say not one more word to me.”
No sooner had I spoken than my arms gathered her to my breast. Somehow feet, hands, and heart had taken me where reason forbade me go. Her hair smelled of dusk roses. Her throat fluttered under my stroking fingers like a captive bird’s heart.
“Easy, easy, sweet lady.” The ragged edge of caution slipped from my grasp. “I will see you through this. But I am surely a sworn witness in this matter. Say naught to me that I cannot report.” Her next word would have linked her with treason . . . regicide. I could not hear it.
“I did not conspire to evil, Portier. I swear it. Those poor people on the Swan . . . murder . . . I could never . . .”
“I believe you.”
And I did—utterly and completely—which was wholly unexplainable save by some conviction passed between her body and mine. Was I so experienced with subterfuge that I could recognize truth and lies, so experienced with women that I could untangle wishing belief from desire and sympathy?
“Go back to your apartments and back to your work. Be yourself. Speak nothing of this night. Nothing of me, save ordinary converse about these rumors. And by your hope of Heaven, lady, go nowhere alone until these matters are settled. Even during the day, keep constantly in company.” Murder had dogged my footsteps. “If you receive letters, messages, packages . . . anything from Michel, anything related to him, anything from Gaetana . . . get them to me. You are exceptional—clever, efficient, trusted. Of all people, you can do these things without suspicion.”
“I’ll not compromise Michel de Vernase,” she said, pulling away.
“Do not speak of him again,” I said. “Neither defend nor condemn him.” My hands slipped down her arms until they grasped her cold fingers. I gathered them and brought them to my lips. “It is not our place to choose what we will or will not see. We must have faith that unfolding truth will expose your actions in their proper proportion and his as worthy of your beliefs. Trust me”—I kissed her fingers, which tasted faintly of honey and springtime—“and don’t be afraid.”
“You make me believe that’s possible,” she said softly. “I’ve never—Who are you, who can bring me such comfort?”
“As you said, damoselle, I am your friend.” Her lips tasted sweeter than her fingers.
IDIOT! WHAT KIND OF AGENTE confide kisses his witness? Or, angels defend us, his quarry? As I waited for lovely Maura and her rose-scented hair to leave the maze well behind, I longed for a time when I did not have to consider such things as duplicity after a kiss of such blessedly enveloping heat as could melt a man’s boots. The records at Seravain named Maura ney Billard a talented, accomplished sorceress of adept’s level. She could be Michel de Vernase’s magical accomplice, the woman who had tormented Ophelie, playing on my inexperience and pity to learn what I knew.
My soul refused to accept it. Or was it only my body telling my soul what to believe? Why had I not asked what she owed Michel?
These circular musings halted upon my return to my apartments. Another message waited.
Sonjeur Duplais:
Regarding my promised inquiries: My valet reminded me that it was Mage Gaetana who brought me the story of poor Drigo’s fatal night at the docks. In the spirit of completest candor, as urged by my lady queen, I must add that Mage Gaetana strongly disapproved of Fedrigo and had repeatedly urged me to dismiss him, complaining that he had invaded her private laboratorium a number of times unasked. I apologize for not mentioning this before. Scruple struggles at passing on such trivia. But conscience cannot permit silence. Fedrigo would have been collared by autumn, and his loss to our community and his family cannot be measured by petty scruple.
Regretfully,
Orv
iene de Cie, Mage of the
Camarilla Magica
Gaetana. Gruchin had been her creature, her adept, nurtured, discarded, and bled dry. Gaetana had frequent access to the missing Mondragoni manuscripts, as well as to the royal crypt and Maura’s services. News of Ophelie’s exposure had infuriated her. She had invited Dante onto the Swan and approached him with unsavory “translation projects.” She had wielded sophisticated magic to douse the Swan fire. Most telling, Ophelie had named a woman as her tormentor. Gaetana had ordered the “mushroom crate” shipped to Mattefriese.
All of these things could be innocent circumstance, as could Adept Fedrigo’s disappearance in the face of her displeasure. Orviene’s “suspicions” could be opportunistic lies or spiteful gossip. Yet in their accumulation, the reports cast an aura of conspiracy over the formidable sorceress. We just needed direct evidence that she had engaged in transference.
My battered body and mind begged for sleep. I pressed the heels of my hands to my eyes as if I might squeeze out some plan to make the sorceress speak. Perhaps it was time to compose my own letter.
Over the next hour, I wrote a brief explanation of my search for evidence to prove Michel de Vernase responsible for the attempt on the king’s life. To this, I appended an account of a horrifying incident, wherein I had been waylaid in the alleyways of Castelle Escalon, dragged to a subterranean laboratorium, and leeched by a tall, masked woman wearing a silver collar, who threatened to drain every drop of my “royal blood.” Lies flowed as fluently from my pen as from my mouth. I described my scarified wounds, and her implements and techniques, and finished with the tale of my harrowing escape by way of an exploding lantern and a passing guardsman.
