Her thoughts already on the task ahead, she went away to look for her husband.
* * *
They were alone in the carriage for the duration of the journey, for, the coachman and footmen aside, Maître de Vaucourt had sent no one to escort them—which meant either that he trusted them to need no minder, or that none of his associates could be spared for the purpose. For some time neither spoke; Gray had brought with him a thick dossier from which protruded untidily a variety of pages closely covered in various hands, including his own, and was engaged in perusing it, occasionally muttering to himself under his breath, whilst Sophie looked out of the window, enjoying the brief and necessarily finite absence of other company.
Then the carriage, travelling at speed, took a particularly sharp corner and threw her and Gray against the fortunately well-padded off-side wall, scattering Gray’s papers over both bancs and the floor.
“Horns of Herne!” said Gray, exasperated. He righted himself and began to gather them up again.
“Do you know,” said Sophie, laughing as she collected the pages which had flown in her direction, “I believe this may be the first time we have been alone together by daylight since leaving Din Edin.”
Gray blinked at her in apparent bewilderment.
“What have you been thinking of, then?” She glanced through the papers in her hands. “Cameron’s mapped finding, first of all, of course; but I do not suppose Maître de Vaucourt has a spelled map like Rory MacCrimmon’s . . .”
“Very likely not,” said Gray, “if the spell is truly an Alban one, but Alasdair Cameron’s having invented it there does not preclude some other mage’s doing the same somewhere in Britain. Besides,” he added, producing something which, though not quite the cheerful grin he seemed to have intended, was nonetheless a very welcome change from the grim tension of the past several days, “other applications exist for a spelled map of that nature, besides Cameron’s mapped finding, and I dare say that His Majesty’s generals have thought of most of them.”
Sophie handed over her stack of papers; Gray shuffled them back into some sequence known only to himself and lost himself in them once more for the remainder of the journey. For some time Sophie watched him fondly, till at length her gaze drifted to the city passing by without—the people going about their business, happy in their ignorance of whatever person or power had intervened to set free her stepfather and his co-conspirators, and of the purposes (whatever they might be) behind that act.
Circumventing the walls and the locks, the guards and the wards, cannot have been easy, she reflected, and therefore it must have been worth a good deal of trouble to someone. Thus much was perfectly evident; but to whom, and why, it was frustratingly difficult to imagine.
* * *
“Your Royal Highness,” said Master Lord de Vaucourt stiffly, bowing, when His Majesty’s major-domo had ushered them into his workroom. Having thus disposed of Sophie, he turned to Gray: “Doctor Marshall. I thank you for accepting my invitation.”
An invitation, was it? thought Gray, with some amusement. A peremptory summons, I should have said.
“We could scarcely do otherwise, my lord,” he said pleasantly, “having volunteered our assistance to begin with. You have work for us to do, I conclude?”
Vaucourt cleared his throat, and looking away, gestured them towards the long worktable in the centre of the room. Gray and Sophie exchanged glances but took two of the offered chairs at the near end of the table. Sophie deposited on the table before her what looked very like a particularly capacious netted work-bag, at which Vaucourt silently curled his lip, and began tugging off her dove-grey kid gloves.
“We thought,” said Sophie, before he could continue, “that we might discuss the possibility of using Cameron’s mapped finding, or something like it, worked in a relay to extend the range of the spell.”
Gray maintained what he hoped was an expression of detached scholarly interest, but inwardly he felt fiercely proud of her, calmly setting out a sensible course of action before a man at least twice her age, whom they both knew to disapprove of her on principle.
Vaucourt, it transpired, had never heard of Alasdair Cameron’s mapped finding, but, the nature of this working having been explained, opined that what was wanted was in fact Larbalastier’s Spell of Location, and that the requisite set of maps were to be found in the Palace Archives.
“But, however,” he said, “of course it has already been tried, without success; either the traitors are protected by wards or shielding-spells, or they are beyond the reach of any finding-spell.”
Or both, added Gray to himself, thinking of his own incarceration, in an interdicted cell in a remote part of Alba. “Hence,” he said aloud, “Magistra Marshall’s suggestion that we employ a relay.”
He caught Vaucourt’s twitch of irritation at the use of Magistra, but fortunately Sophie did not.
“A relay,” Vaucourt repeated, surprised and sceptical. “You refer, I suppose, to the collective working of spells of concealment, or of shielding-spells, as practised by military mages?”
Gray could scarcely fault Vaucourt’s ignorance of other uses of relays, having himself been entirely unaware that any such working existed until after his Alban friends had employed one in rescuing him from Cormac MacAlpine. “I have never seen a finding worked using a relay myself,” he said. “Magistra, perhaps you might describe your experience?”
Sophie reached into her work-bag—which in fact Gray knew to be filled largely with books—and extracted a codex, bound in once-fine but now rather battered bottle-green leather. Setting aside the bag, she opened the book and riffled through its pages until she found the one she wanted, then turned it about and slid it across the table to Lord Vaucourt.
“This is the fullest and clearest explanation I know of the use of relays in finding-spells,” she said. “I have taken part in several experiments on a small scale, but on the occasion of which my husband speaks—which was, I believe, an experiment on a larger scale, rather than a practised manoeuvre—I was a witness only.”
“Even in Alba, I suppose,” said Vaucourt, not looking up from On Findings and Summonings: Revised and Expanded, with Illustrations of Specialist Uses Thereof, “such a major working must be considered outside the female sphere.”
Presumably he had not remarked the words stamped on the book’s front board, below the title:
by Morag Ruadh MacQuarie, Mag.D.
revised and expanded by Rory MacCrimmon, Mag.D.,
and Sophia Marshall, Mag.B.
Sophie caught Gray’s eye and, out of Vaucourt’s sight, rolled her eyes at him.
“In fact,” she said evenly, “if memory serves, at least half the mages present were women. I was not among them only because, as it happened, I was too ill to do more than look on.”
Now Vaucourt did look up, frowning. “You understand, of course, ma’am, that there can be no question of—”
The workroom door opened once more, this time to admit Lord Kergabet and Mr. Fowler, and Vaucourt desisted from his argument—wisely, in Gray’s view—to greet the new arrivals.
“I suppose,” said Sieur Germain, “there is no use as yet in inquiring after your progress?”
“An interesting suggestion has been made,” Vaucourt conceded, “as to the possibility of working a finding-spell collectively, in the same manner as, for example, a regimental shielding-spell.” His eyes narrowed thoughtfully, and when he spoke again there was a suggestion of satisfaction in his voice, quite at odds with the words themselves: “The notion is not without promise, in theory; but in practice, of course, it is quite impossible.”
“And why should it be impossible?” Sophie demanded.
“Indeed,” said Kergabet, “why should it? Ordinarily, of course, I should defer to you on any question of magick, Vaucourt, but as my brother- and sister-in-law have considerable practical experience
in these matters, I have made it a rule never to dismiss their suggestions untried.”
An expression of raw dislike flashed over Vaucourt’s face—there and gone in an instant—as Kergabet and Fowler, uninvited, seated themselves at the table, Kergabet to Sophie’s left and Fowler to Gray’s right.
“Firstly,” he said, “the necessary range is too great, even for a collective working; these men may have travelled many hundreds of miles by this time, in any direction.”
“In that case, we must expand the relay, so as to further extend the range,” said Gray. He was struggling to keep his temper, for they should get nowhere at all by shouting. “More to the point—”
“And, secondly,” Vaucourt continued, cutting across him until Gray gave up in disgust, “even were it possible to locate them by means of a collective working—which is by no means certain, for in addition to the matter of distance, there is, as Doctor Marshall may remember, every likelihood of their being protected by wards or shields—the nature of a finding is such that—”
“As Master Vaucourt may remember,” Gray broke in, seeing that Sophie’s equanimity had begun to fray about the edges, “the suggestion made was that we employ Cameron’s mapped finding—or, as it may be, Larbalastier’s Spell of Location—which, of course, does not require that the finding-spell be maintained until spell-worker and target are brought together. You have said, I believe, sir, that an attempt has already been made using the Larbalastier spell?”
“Several attempts, in fact,” said Vaucourt, in an icy tone. “None of them at all successful.”
“But those attempts did not make use of a re—I beg your pardon, of a collective working,” said Sophie, “and therefore—”
“Ma’am,” said Vaucourt tightly. “Far be it from me to disparage your . . . particular talents, but a collective working is a delicate and difficult undertaking, in which each participant must implicitly trust and rely upon all the rest, and a chain which can never be stronger than its weakest link. I cannot reasonably require any of my colleagues or assistants to embark upon so delicate and difficult a project, knowing that its success and their own safety depend on the skill and competence of a woman.”
It was not surprising, exactly; but—
“I confess, Master Vaucourt,” said Sophie (Gray saw, but hoped that Vaucourt might not, how near she was to losing her composure), “that I do not altogether understand why you should have accepted our offer of assistance, if, as it now appears, you believe we can be of no help to you.”
Vaucourt smiled at her—a tight little smile with no mirth and no friendliness in it. “Having spent so little time at court, Your Highness,” he said, “you may perhaps not recognise the importance of diplomacy.”
Gray, who had not the least idea what might be meant by this remark, looked across the table at his brother-in-law, and upon his face beheld an expression of outrage which made him blink in surprise.
“Do I understand, sir,” said Kergabet, “that two of the most powerful mages in Britain have freely offered their help in resolving the present crisis, and you are intending to refuse it?”
“Certainly not,” Vaucourt replied, bristling. “I should welcome Doctor Marshall’s assistance.”
On Gray’s other side, Mr. Fowler exhaled a sharp huh! and muttered under his breath, “You will wish you had not said that, m’lord.”
Gray himself, his mind frozen in outrage, looked across the table at his brother-in-law, at Sophie.
Kergabet wore a predictably indignant expression, but Sophie—Sophie, who ought to have been incensed at this open, unequivocal insult—met Gray’s eyes with a small, resigned grimace.
I had rather swim the Thames in the dead of winter than make common cause with this man, thought Gray, furious. And yet . . . if any opportunity offers for me to hasten the recapture of Callender and the rest, how can I possibly justify refusing it?
“Of the pair of us, Maître Vaucourt,” he said, “I am neither the more powerful, nor the more versatile.”
Vaucourt’s expression was utterly baffling: Why in Hades should Vaucourt pity him?
“Be that as it may, Doctor Marshall,” he said, “you are the more . . . suitable.”
“The more congruent with your own prejudices, in other words,” said Gray.
“Gray.” Sophie’s arm stretched across the table, and her fingers folded over his; magick shivered through their joined hands. “This is more important than either of us, and certainly more important than my wounded self-regard.”
She spoke deprecatingly—as though this last were a frivolous jest—and her face was perfectly expressionless. Vaucourt actually chuckled, causing Mr. Fowler (who knew Sophie rather better) to shake his head despairingly.
Gray turned his hand palm upwards and clasped Sophie’s, briefly but firmly. “As you say, Magistra,” he said, and, turning to Vaucourt, “I am at your disposal, sir.”
Vaucourt nodded—acknowledgement without thanks—and at once made Gray regret his decision by saying to Sophie, “If you will excuse us, ma’am . . . ?”
“Certainly.” Sophie let go Gray’s hand, rose gracefully from her seat, gathered her books (all but Morag Ruadh MacQuarie’s treatise on findings and summonings, which still lay splayed under Vaucourt’s hand; Gray made a mental note to retrieve it later), and made for the door, swinging wide around Vaucourt’s chair.
Vaucourt summoned two of his assistants, whom Gray vaguely recognised as Merlin men some two or three years younger than himself, and dispatched one to retrieve the maps from the Archives, and the other to gather the rest of the Court mages for another attempt at a finding-spell.
CHAPTER XIV
In Which Joanna and Gwendolen Disobey Orders
Kergabet had not, in so many words, made any promise to keep Joanna abreast of the progress of his investigation. In the course of that first fortnight, however—whether because he considered himself to have made such a promise or because he genuinely wished to hear her views—he contrived to convey some piece of news to her almost every evening, and listened with every appearance of keen interest to her reciprocal news, when from time to time she had any to convey.
Yet though he told her what he could, it was little enough: that the prisoners had contrived to escape without alerting their guards, without visible damage to the premises, and entirely without trace of any sort; that they had left no possessions behind them which might be used in scrying to discover their intentions or their present whereabouts; that the guards did not appear to have been drugged, but a scry-mage in His Majesty’s service opined that they might well have been bespelled. The investigation into their disappearance—headed jointly, though not very harmoniously, by Kergabet and by His Majesty’s chief mage, Lord de Vaucourt—had as yet discovered nothing of more substance than this, and Joanna felt Kergabet’s frustration almost as a physical force whenever they spoke of it. No doubt he was equally aware of the singing tension that gripped her almost always now, compounded of impatience with the slow pace of progress, frustration at her own powerlessness to help, and simple anger at her father. Though of course she was not so arrogant as to suppose that his actions had anything to do with her, or with Amelia—Sophie, or at any rate Sophie’s central role in delivering him up to Maître de Vaucourt and the priests of Apollo Coelispex, being a different matter altogether.
Of Sophie and Gray’s attempt to assist in the search for the escaped prisoners, Kergabet would say only that things had not fallen out as he himself had hoped, and neither Sophie nor Gray would say anything at all—though their air of suppressed fury, since returning from that initial conference with Vaucourt, and the habit they had developed of fleeing to the library every morning after breakfast and employing Sophie’s concealing magick to discourage anyone but Kergabet from remarking their presence there, disinclined Joanna to question them on the subject in any case. They had quarrelled with Vaucourt, Joanna co
ncluded—or Sophie had—and were now pursuing some investigatory avenue of their own, without his knowledge or consent. She wished them joy of it, despite her bitter irritation at being excluded from their counsels.
In her heart of hearts, too, relief flashed guiltily whenever the library door closed behind Sophie, for it meant at least that she was safe at home, and not running off into the gods knew what peril.
Sophie and Gray are not helpless, she reminded herself sternly, beginning to unpick a whole row of stitches which she had set wrongly whilst brooding over the problem of Professor Callender and his friends.
But they were just as capable three years ago, when they first went north into Alba, and much good it did them then!
“They are both still alive and well, are they not?” said Gwendolen.
Joanna started violently, knocking the knuckles of her right hand against the arm of the sofa. Had she been thinking aloud, then? It seemed so. Thank all the gods that Mrs. Marshall and Jenny are out paying calls!
Gwendolen tucked her crewel-work away in her work-basket, then left her chair to kneel at Joanna’s feet.
“Jo,” she said quietly, “you must not fret yourself to death over this business. You have not been sleeping well—have you? Is it the nightmares again? There are shadows under your eyes, and your hands are shaking.”
Joanna, appalled, looked down at her hands—lying idle in her lap now, for she had dropped her latest attempt at fancy-work in her astonishment at being addressed—and saw that it was quite true.
“I am half-sick with being penned up in this house,” she admitted.
By Kergabet’s decree, the morning rides which had been their settled habit remained suspended; and thus this morning, once again, they sat quietly stitching in the morning-room rather than galloping through the park. Though Joanna thought this precaution ridiculous, for Jenny’s sake she had not argued the point, but she was beginning to feel that she should soon go mad if she were not released from this prison—even so large and comfortable as it was.
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