The Seat of Magic

by J. Kathleen Cheney

  “Also remember, their call draws human men,” his mother said, “which you are not, Duilinho. Not completely.” She stood at the library’s door, wearing a quilted dressing gown in pastel yellow. Her hair hung in a loose braid over her shoulder. She kept her hands behind her.

  Joaquim hastily slid his feet off the table, looking sheepish.

  “No, don’t get up,” she told them. “I didn’t realize you were here, Filho. I only came down to ask Duilio if there was any news.”

  She always called Joaquim Filho, since he shared his father’s name. According to Joaquim, it had the same effect as when she called him “Duilinho”—that of making him feel like a small child. “Nothing yet, Mother.”

  She turned her eyes on Joaquim. “How is your father? And Cristiano?”

  Joaquim inclined his head. “They’re both well. Now that he’s back from Coimbra, Cristiano is working at the shop full-time. He loves it there, for which I am glad.”

  “As am I.” She cast a hesitant glance at Duilio before addressing Joaquim again. “I wonder if you and your family would join us for dinner sometime soon. So that I might catch up on your news.”

  That was the first Duilio had heard of such an idea.

  “We would be very pleased to do so,” Joaquim said. “Father especially has worried about how you’re getting on.”

  “I’m much better now,” she said. “I will send an invitation, although we should plan our dinner after Miss Paredes returns, don’t you think, Duilio?”

  Joaquim turned curious eyes on Duilio.

  “Of course, we should wait. Mother, were you aware that Alessio knew the infante?”

  “Yes.” She shifted and folded her arms, apparently only remembering as she did so that large sheepskin mittens still covered her hands—mittens usually reserved for the cook’s frequent bouts of arthritis. She cast a guilty glance at Joaquim and said, “My hands are tender, but you do not need to tell your father, Filho. I don’t want him to worry.”

  Joaquim cast a conspiratorial glance in her direction. “Certainly not.”

  She turned back to Duilio. “Your brother knew him from school. The infante studied Latin with him, but he actually studied while your brother did not. They remained friends, I believe, until Alessio died.”

  Had he spotted the infante in some corner tavern or in the library and never known he was looking at royalty? “Why didn’t I know that?” Duilio mused.

  “Because you and your brother never talked,” she said with some asperity.

  He should have expected that answer. “I’m sorry, Mother.”

  She laughed softly. “He didn’t make it easy, did he? Now, I shall leave the two of you to your commiseration over whatever requires brandy at this time of night.”

  With that she inclined her head toward the two of them and slipped into the dark hallway. Joaquim turned guilty eyes on Duilio. “I had my feet up on the table.”

  Duilio shrugged. His mother had never been one to fight with boys over mistreatment of the furniture. “It’s not as if she’s never seen you do that before.”

  After casting a swift glance at the hallway, Joaquim put his feet up on one of the other chairs rather than the table itself. “Father is halfway in love with her, you know. I’m not certain this is a good idea, a social call.”

  Duilio settled back in his chair. Although his mother would never have betrayed her wedding vows, he’d always known she admired the elder Joaquim Tavares. She had, after all, raised his two sons after his wife died. “I’ll see if I can subtly remind her not to dazzle him too much.”

  CHAPTER 5

  In the darkness, a light rain began to fall. Oriana shifted onto her back, crying out when sand pressed against her burned skin. She let her mouth fall open, catching as much rain as she could, buying precious time. Enough for a few more hours, that was all she needed. She had to survive a few more hours.

  She heard the waves rushing onto the rocks, too far away to do more than tantalize her. The post loomed over her, a dark shadow with something pale at the top—the albatross. Her eyes were failing. Her gills ached, so very dry, and the rain wasn’t enough to ease the pain.

  There was no one, she knew. No one would come for her. It would be the will of the gods if she died here alone. Only she had done nothing to deserve this punishment. By all rights, the gods should send her rescue.

  The rain, meager though it might be, refreshed her hope. A few more hours. She only had to survive a few more hours.

  CHAPTER 6

  TUESDAY, 21 OCTOBER 1902

  Duilio stood in the doorway of the front sitting room. His mother hadn’t come down for breakfast, so their morning visitor was left to him to handle, even if she’d asked for his mother. Lady Pereira de Santos sat alone on the pale leather couch, a small figure in unrelieved black. She wore a lace mantilla over her neatly coiffed black hair. The lace was turned back to expose her face, but the veil’s presence told Duilio that the lady, who lived much farther up the Street of Flowers, had made the visit secretly. He couldn’t see any reason for the subterfuge; he was sure she wasn’t one of Alessio’s conquests.

  There had been some scandal in her family, though, several years ago when he was at Coimbra, a break with her stepson. He’d met the Marquis de Sesimbre, a puppy of a nobleman who thought a mere gentleman like Duilio Ferreira far beneath his noble family’s notice. The young aristocrat surely wouldn’t approve of this visit, so perhaps that was her reason. There was a daughter as well, unmarried and unlikely to be so soon. Despite having seen her at many balls, Duilio didn’t think he’d ever heard tall Lady Ana speak—or seen her dance—with anyone.

  When she saw him at the door, Lady Pereira de Santos rose. Nowhere near her daughter’s height, the lady barely reached his shoulder. “Mr. Ferreira,” she said with a small curtsy. “I trust Lady Ferreira is not too ill?”

  He gestured for the lady to sit again, and she settled once more on the couch, a dark blot against the leather. “We were sailing yesterday,” he offered, leaning against the corner of the marble mantelpiece. “She burned her fingers on a rope. It is uncomfortable, but she’ll soon be fully recovered. I’ll convey your concern.”

  The lady turned her long eyes on him, a measuring glance. “You didn’t take a crew?”

  He had difficulty imagining the lady sailing her own boat, all swathed in black. “My father—bless his soul—would never forgive me should I not man the sails myself.”

  “Of course,” she said, her eyes drifting down toward her black-gloved hands where they lay in her lap. “I’d forgotten he was a sailor.”

  Duilio controlled his annoyance. “Sailor” was far too simple a word for his father, who’d captained ships for the prince’s father and transformed his trading business into large investments when he no longer wished to sail. “Adventurer” would have suited him better. Duilio smiled at her anyway. “He was most adamant, my lady, that I learn to sail.”

  She went still, as if deciding what to say next. The light fell across her face, glinting across a metallic thread in the lace of her mantilla. She was truly lovely, although in a hard way, like one who wore her beauty as a shield. She’d been widowed young, and while she wore mourning for her husband still, black flattered her fair complexion. She lifted her face to his then, and he saw that her eyes were hazel, not brown. “I am looking for Miss Oriana Paredes. I hoped you or your mother might know what’s become of her.”

  That was not, in any way, what he’d expected. He kept his breathing calm only by virtue of reminding himself not to give anything away. Why was this woman asking after Oriana? The lady’s home stood next to the Amaral house, where Oriana had worked longer than a year. And the woman had attempted to speak with Oriana at the Carvalho ball, but Oriana had seemed very uncomfortable being the focus of the lady’s attention.

  He wished he had an answer, although he wasn’t sure he would
share it if he did. “Has Miss Paredes offended you somehow?”

  “No, Mr. Ferreira.” The lady’s chin lifted in a stubborn tilt. “But I need to find her and I don’t have access to the palace. You might.”

  The palace? The lady had a reputation for being disturbingly direct, but she’d just gone three steps past direct and straight to insanity. “I don’t understand. Why are you seeking Miss Paredes?”

  She rose and paced the length of the rug before the couch. When she turned to him again, her jaw was set. “I am in an uncomfortable position, Mr. Ferreira,” she said, her voice cross. “I’m here on the behalf of another, someone whom I cannot reveal, who is concerned for the young woman’s welfare. He hasn’t been able to discover her whereabouts and needs someone to intervene on her behalf. Someone with greater access. As Miss Paredes was employed here, I had hoped that you might be willing.”

  He stared at the woman. What was truly going on behind that lovely face? “Access to the palace?”

  “I have reason to believe that . . .” She paused and he guessed she’d reached the truly awkward part. She started over. “I believe Ambassador Alvaro might have some idea where the young lady is. Or he could find out.”

  That name set off warning bells in Duilio’s head. Alvaro was the ambassador of Oriana’s people to the prince’s court. The lady’s request meant she knew Oriana wasn’t human—or that this unnamed person on whose behalf she’d come did. And while the idea of going to the ambassador for information had occurred to Duilio, he didn’t know whether the man would be inclined to help Oriana.

  “I am a widow and have no reason to request a meeting with the man,” Lady Pereira de Santos added when he didn’t respond. “But you might do so, Mr. Ferreira. You’re a man, and can go where you like.”

  Had she thought through what she was asking of him? Sympathy for the cause of the various sea folk was often difficult to prove, but visiting Ambassador Alvaro would surely be considered a sign of Duilio’s leanings, inviting scrutiny his not-completely-human family could ill afford. And while he now had friends in the Special Police, that body was divided between the new powers and the old members who’d abused their authority. He couldn’t be sure the second group wouldn’t get their hands on him, and therefore, his mother.

  His hesitation must have shown, because the lady stepped closer, the scent of roses drifting with her. “You have no reason to trust me, I know, Mr. Ferreira. But I swear I only have the young woman’s safety in mind. My friend believes she’s in great danger. There are rumors starting in certain quarters that . . . something has happened to her.”

  Duilio swallowed and pressed his eyes closed. His gift agreed with that statement. Something had happened. But when he asked himself if Oriana was still alive, his gift told him she was. He met the lady’s eyes. “What makes you think you can trust me?”

  “I saw you with her at the Carvalho ball.”

  That was the only social event Oriana had attended as his mother’s companion, a single ball where Oriana had sat quietly in the shadows among the old women and hired companions. Lady Pereira de Santos had tried to speak with her there. Duilio didn’t remember singling Oriana out himself, though. “She is my mother’s companion,” he pointed out. “I was not escorting her.”

  Lady Pereira de Santos regarded him with narrowed eyes. “Those of us who lie to society, we all keep a certain distance from others. The face you showed her was not a lie. You trust her, which tells me she has some value to you, beyond that of a mere servant.”

  “Everyone in society lies, lady,” he said softly.

  She took a deep breath, pressing one hand to her belly. “I have a husband,” she told him. “No one knows, but he and I have been secretly married for seven years now.”

  Now that surprised him. She still wore mourning for her first husband; it was not unusual in the more traditional families for a widow to dress so for the remainder of her life, and to remain a widow as well. And although Duilio had heard that the lady had a lover, he had no idea she’d married the man, a commoner who ran a clerk’s office in the city—her man of business. “Monteiro.”

  She cast a startled look at him, but didn’t deny it. “You can imagine my stepson would be displeased, and society rather disapproving, should it get out.”

  Both true. Even if the remarriage were not an issue itself, her first husband had been a marquis and her father a duke. She came from a long line of nobles who would find her marriage to a commoner shocking. Yet she’d married Monteiro knowing there would be scandal and opposition. Her gesture of trust in revealing that secret decided him. “What should I ask the ambassador?”

  Her shoulders slumped in relief, and she laid one black-gloved hand against the mantel. “If he knows where she is,” she said, “and if he can intercede if she’s been imprisoned.”

  Imprisoned? Duilio swallowed. “It may take me a couple of days to get an audience at the palace. Even with the ambassador.”

  “I understand. All I ask is that you send word if you learn anything. My butler is in my confidence and can be trusted with any message you have for us.” She faced him squarely. “I am very grateful, Mr. Ferreira.”

  “No need,” Duilio said, giving her a wry smile. “I was considering going to him anyway. I didn’t know where else to turn.” He’d known that Oriana reported to a spymaster in the city, a man disguised as a fisherman. But the spymaster’s fishing boat was no longer at its previous mooring, and Duilio had no way to know if the man would help Oriana anyway.

  Lady Pereira de Santos laughed softly, seeming friendlier now that she had her way. “I was right about you, then, that you hold her in esteem.”

  “I think very highly of Miss Paredes,” he admitted.

  She held out one hand. “Again, my thanks. Even if you learn nothing at all, you will have tried. It’s all we can ask.”

  He bowed over her slender hand and a moment later, the lady was gone.

  * * *

  Duilio wrote his request for the fourth time, this time finally aligning the wording correctly so that nothing spilled into a margin. He sanded the paper and set it aside to dry. It was at times like this that he considered hiring a secretary, but finding one he could trust with his family’s secrets posed difficulties.

  He’d wrapped a fine leather-bound book carefully in brown parchment, neither too rich nor too plain. It was only one of several volumes from his library written in an unfamiliar script supposedly belonging to the ancestors of the sereia. His father had told him that, making him doubt the claim. The unknown book held little value to Duilio—he certainly couldn’t read it himself—but he hoped it would provide an excuse to talk to the ambassador without causing too much suspicion.

  His mother waited at the door of the library, her bandaged feet tucked into felt slippers and her hands hidden in the sheepskin mittens. Once Duilio gathered his things, she laid a hand on his arm and kissed his cheek. “Be cautious,” she told him, an unnecessary warning.

  “Stay off your feet, Mother,” he bid her in turn, equally without need.

  The family’s carriage had been readied to transport him to the palace gate. He could have taken the tram or walked, but arriving in a carriage would grant him an air of importance. Posturing was everything when it came to dealing with bureaucracy. He would have to deal with guards and secretaries, all of whom considered every petitioner an inconvenience. So he chose the carriage, hoping to start off on the right foot.

  The ride to the entrance of the palace grounds wasn’t long, only a couple of miles up the Street of Flowers. The road served as the primary thoroughfare between the water and the palace, though, and was heavily used. The driver wended his way through the early-afternoon traffic, likely more slowly than Duilio could have walked. The tram would have certainly been faster. The delay gave Duilio time to fidget with his black frock coat, his linen cuffs, and the creases of his charcoal pinstrip
ed trousers. His valet would have exploded in a flurry of French curses had he known Duilio did anything other than sit perfectly still.

  But it was one of those moments when Duilio’s gift warned that his imminent choices would mean his life or death. So far he’d always made the correct choice. He wasn’t sure this time.

  CHAPTER 7

  After passing through the densely wooded park that surrounded the palace grounds, the coach stopped before the first gate. Duilio stepped down, tucking the paper-wrapped book under one arm. He gazed up at the walls of the palace, asking himself whether he wanted to walk inside and practically proclaim himself a Sympathizer . . . but it was a moot point. He had no other way to seek out information about Oriana, so to the ambassador he would go.

  The palace rose above him, its fanciful turrets and walls painted in red and gold. Merlons topped each wall, suggesting a military usefulness that this palace had never actually exercised. It was decorative rather than defensible. It was also a maze, Duilio had heard, with several different levels, dozens of stairwells, and patios that looked out over the Golden City. The newest addition to the palace, built by the current prince’s father, was a square structure rising two stories above the clock tower that had once been the palace’s highest point. Its whitewashed walls failed to capture the whimsical spirit that the older parts of the jumble displayed.

  Duilio cast a glance up at the ornate entry gate with its tiles and arches. The source of the emblem on the Special Police’s badge, an open hand on the arch’s keystone, warned the intruder of the palace’s magical properties. Whatever those were, their secret remained unknown to the general populace. Not swayed, Duilio walked up to the gates to present himself to the guards.

  Unlike the building, the guards did have a martial air, making Duilio glad he hadn’t attempted any weapons. Their blue uniforms with red sashes and gold braid hailed back to the previous century, the cutaway coats revealing very businesslike sabers and formal daggers. He wouldn’t be surprised if each guard had a pistol secreted somewhere on their person as well.