Celeste led the way upstairs to a small cramped bedroom that the two clearly shared. In one corner, on a small rickety table, sat a cluttered shrine of the sort often found in private houses. In pride of place where one might have expected a crucifix or a Madonna and child, there was a painted plaster figure of Saint Mauriz, with the stub of a small candle fixed before him. A printed crucifixion scene on cheap paper was pasted to the wall behind it, faded and stained, and a string of beads lay to one side. Celeste pulled out a battered chest that had been tucked under the table and opened it to store the candle away. It was filled with trays and boxes of paraphernalia that reminded Serafina of the sorts of apparatus gathered for performing mysteries: candles, scraps of paper and parchment with prayers carefully diagrammed on them, small vials of assorted liquids, bits of cloth and many things less certain in their nature.
“Is this where you perform your mysteries?” Serafina asked. Margerit had similar images in her sitting room for private prayers, but she always performed her mysteries at the cathedral, even the minor ones.
“Not the ones I do for other folk,” Celeste explained. “I mostly do healing stuff—Maman doesn’t like me doing the other things much—so I don’t do them here.”
Curiosity stirred. This seemed more like her own mother’s stories of how the marvers had practiced their miracles. “I didn’t think Saint Mauriz usually granted healing,” Serafina observed. The soldier-saint was more often invoked as a protector.
“He does for me,” Celeste said fiercely.
And it was simpler than that, she realized. This was not the Mauriz of the cathedral windows, whose pale brown face would scarcely stand out among the weathered rivermen, only his turbaned helmet marking his origins. The plaster figure standing on the erteskir was Mauriz the Moor. In his broad nose, generous lips and coal-black skin, Celeste might see her mother’s ancestors: a circle connected and an anchor to this city of her birth. No wonder she had chosen him as her own personal patron.
A tapping of feet coming up the stairs interrupted them. “Celeste, you mustn’t take up any more of the Maisetra’s time. You already owe her what you can’t repay.”
Serafina knew better than to mention the price of her dress. That had been a different transaction. But, perhaps… “Celeste, I was wondering if you might be able to do me a favor. How familiar are you with the Strangers’ Market?”
Chapter Eight
Barbara
Mid-November, 1823
The library of Tiporsel House was far too small to contain the growing conclave that Margerit called together to review the castellum. Barbara had felt distanced from the enthusiasm in the days before the ceremony. With no special sensitivity she perceived only what anyone might feel: the prickling of her neck at the missio of one of the great rites, or sometimes a shiver as if someone had walked over her grave. But sorting out the results of Margerit’s observations was familiar ground. Now that the forces and effects had been translated to symbols on paper, she could see the architecture clearly. She traced her finger along the colorful lines Margerit had splashed across the diagram. There in the first few pages were the ragged flaws they needed to address.
“It’s nothing like what Gaudericus describes,” Serafina said hesitantly. “He adapts Valla in specifying that the scope—what you call the markein—of the mystery must be defined at each point by its substance, quality and action. But Valla was concerned with unities and Gaudericus with distinctions. Your pictures show the unities, but how do they distinguish?”
Serafina always had more questions than answers, yet her questions usually cut to the heart. Over the summer she had begun to master Gaudericus and was quick to find the contradictions between his work and her previous studies.
Margerit colored a little at the question. “I know I should pay more attention to formal structures. Akezze keeps scolding me for it. But this—” She waved her hand at the sheets of colorful watercolors. “—it says what I’m thinking so much more clearly.”
Antuniet gave something like a snort as she moved a small stack of books off a side table to bring it into use. “It’s clear as long as one has the key to the symbols.” She added, “In some ways, it’s quite similar to an alchemist’s notes except that there are no standard conventions yet. If I were trying to record the same thing, I might assign a certain proportion of elemental essences to each material, just as an aide memoire. The sign isn’t the thing itself, but it must define it in some unique way.”
“That’s hardly the same at all,” Margerit said with a frown. “For alchemy you’re trying to construct…oh, I don’t know…handles? For something within the formula. And like Valla’s definitions, you’re concerned with repeatable unities. But when we’re trying to lay out the markein here, it’s more a matter of trying to define the unique essence, the true nature of where we want the miracle to act. And in alchemy the materials are there in front of you. It’s a physical process. But miracles are so often—” She waved her hands in the air. “—diffuse. You may not even have the beneficiary before you.”
Barbara had been listening silently, but she couldn’t resist the scent of theological debate. “That leaves the question of whether God knows what’s in your heart before you begin. I know Fortunatus claims that’s the truth behind why miracles are so elusive. That the words and the intent and God’s will might not align.”
“Oh pooh!” Margerit said dismissively. “That’s just his way of admitting when he has no idea what’s going on. Or that he was afraid to have an opinion.” She laid another diagram on top of the stack. Here the washes of color were laid over a rough pen and ink map of Alpennia. “When we designed it, I had very much in mind the flaws in the Mauriz. How the symbolic language left the door open to changes that would alter the entire meaning. That’s why we anchored the markein for the castellum so closely to geography. To the specific regions and towns that indicate the borders.”
“There’s still room for it to go astray,” Barbara noted. “For instance here, you’ve laid Sain-Pol and the stone bridge over each other to indicate Nofpunt. But there are hundreds of chapels to Sain-Pol and bridges aren’t precisely rare. How can you be certain it anchors the markein to that place specifically? Might that…?”
“It flows from the context,” Antuniet interrupted. “You’re tracing the border here to here to here.” She traced a line along the pink wash of hills on the map. “That helps to fix it to something within that scope. The structure as a whole is what matters, that each part is reinforced by the others.”
Serafina moved around to the other side of the table and shifted the drawings to find the part of the map where Amituz lay at the northeast corner of the boundaries. “Except that they aren’t reinforced. The structures are there—the towers and walls—but they aren’t forming a barrier. This is where I first saw the problem, when they began to mark the foundations here, and then continuing all along the eastern border. It was…” Her mouth twisted in thought. “Have you ever been to a seashore?”
Barbara nodded, but the others looked blank so Serafina explained. “In the wet sand, at the edge of the water, children will build walls and towers in play. But then a wave, larger than the rest, will run up the beach and wash over them, leaving only a trace. Like the remains of ancient walls that have been overgrown. It was like that: first with the markein and then as the towers were raised. The mystery would build them up, but then something would wash over and around the structure and soften the outlines. They were still there, but indistinct.”
“You think something was preventing the walls from rising properly?” Margerit asked. “I saw something like what you described but I thought it was a weakness in raising them. A flaw in the ritual.”
Barbara circled the table to join her as the others argued about exactly what it was that they had perceived. The map Margerit had used for her sketches was only an outline, but there was one property shared throughout the segment Serafina indicated. “Mountains,” she said.
&
nbsp; Antuniet immediately grasped her meaning. “You’re right. But why should that…?”
Margerit looked chagrined. “I hadn’t noticed that, only that the problem started during the last part of the markein. I thought it was part of the complexity—that the structure was trying to hold too many things together. Serafina…something you said about waves before. Not this time, but when we discussed the Mauriz.”
Serafina nodded. “And not only in the mountains,” she added, “but that’s where it’s most obvious.”
And then they were bent over the map again, trying to reconstruct their observations from the Mauriz tutela and add them to the present discussion.
Mountains. Something present in the mountains that nibbled away at the effectiveness of both the protective mysteries. Someone else had been needling her about the mountain passes. “Kreiser knows something about this.”
All eyes turned to her. Margerit’s brows narrowed in concern. Serafina was baffled, Antuniet angry.
She explained further, “He’s been teasing me about something going on in the mountains. I thought it was just another of his games.” A year past Kreiser had tricked her into playing his go-between when he’d tried to arrange an Austrian marriage alliance. She’d been wary of his hints ever since. “Perhaps…”
Antuniet said sharply, “I don’t know why you even speak to the man!”
“He isn’t just a token on the game board,” Barbara countered. “He’s moving pieces and directing other players. If I’m to play the game, I can’t afford to ignore him or shun him.”
In her heart, she knew that she loved both the game of state and the more personal game of wits she played with the man. At first, it had been a reflex of her duty to the old baron, when her position as armin had demanded intimate knowledge of every player on the board. But now she had Princess Annek’s tacit encouragement to pursue her instincts.
Yes, perhaps it was time to have a more pointed talk with Kreiser.
After the others had left, Barbara began collecting up all the notes and sketches as Margerit cataloged each one and wrote a summary of their discussion to accompany them, sighing as she did so. “There’s just no room to work. Who would think that a mansion on the Vezenaf could feel so cramped.”
Barbara passed her another sheet. “Your Aunt Bertrut wouldn’t care to have to dine in the kitchen just to leave space for all this!”
The truth was that Bertrut would never complain. The arrangement was too comfortable for any of them to chafe at such minor conflicts. And for that reason Margerit wouldn’t test the limits by imposing her chaos on the entire household. Bertrut and her husband provided a shield of social respectability that two unmarried women—even if one were a baroness—could not achieve on their own.
And with the question of space on their minds, Barbara asked, “Have you thought further about your school?”
“Akezze’s printers are already making plans for Frances’s book.” It both was and wasn’t an answer. “I’ve spoken to LeFevre, and…” Margerit bit her lip in hesitation. “Barbara, what does Fonten House mean to you?”
Barbara could guess where she was going. Fonten House in Chalanz was where they had first met, in those last weeks before the old baron’s death. It was where Margerit had first spread her wings, enjoying what an inheritance could promise her. There were many memories rooted there. But…
She set down the papers she was holding and wrapped her arms around Margerit, tilting her head to rest her cheek against the soft tumble of her curls. “We scarcely spend a month out of the year there in the best of times,” she murmured. And she hadn’t even done that much this past year, having gone to Turinz instead. “Are you sure you wouldn’t mind giving it up? I can’t imagine you staying with your Uncle Fulpi when you visit Chalanz.” The Fulpis were far more disapproving of Margerit’s life than the more pragmatic Bertrut had been.
“No,” Margerit said with a movement of her head that gently ended the embrace. “But the only reason I might return next summer would be to host Cousin Iuli’s coming out ball, and I honestly think they’d rather I just spent the money to hire the public ballroom. Aunt Honurat thinks I’m a very bad influence on Iuli, and in her position I’d think so too.” She laughed. “You’ve read the letters Iuli writes to me—full of poetry and romantic nonsense!”
“So you’re going to sell?”
Margerit returned to the previous topic. “Yes, I think I must. LeFevre says I could raise the funds to buy something on the edge of Rotenek without doing so, but it would leave matters strained. And with the work needed at Turinz…”
“Turinz will stand on its own,” Barbara hurried to assure her.
“Of course, but I’d rather it didn’t stand so precariously. One never knows. And Chalanz is very desirable as a summer estate. LeFevre has already had several generous offers just on the rumor.”
“Then do it,” Barbara agreed. “And we can start hunting for a place to build your school.”
* * *
It was easier for Barbara to decide to match wits with Kreiser once more than to determine where and how to do so. Leaving her card at the embassy would be too direct. It would suggest an official flavor to the conversation that she had no warrant for. He rarely attended balls or the theater and those had no guarantee of privacy. It was unthinkable to approach him openly at his private lodgings. There was a fine line between eccentricity and scandal. In some things, even Baroness Saveze could not escape the walls that surrounded an unmarried woman of a certain age.
But those walls did have cracks and some of the cracks had been left open only because it would not occur to most women to walk through them. Kreiser was known to frequent a certain club named Sainkall’s on the Peretrez. A few questions to Charul Pertinek, Margerit’s uncle-by-marriage, had ascertained the Austrian’s habits and confirmed her understanding of the unstated rules of such an establishment. Matters would be simpler if Pertinek were a member of Sainkell’s himself but she had no such luck. Now it was only a matter of choosing the correct uniform for mounting an assault through the breach in those walls.
The dressing room was littered with discarded choices, but Barbara had reached a point where Brandel might be admitted, on a hesitant knock, as Maitelen fussed over the last few details.
“What do you think?” Barbara asked him, turning before the glass.
“You look very elegant, Cousin Barbara,” he said formally.
She fixed him with a critical eye. “I wasn’t looking for compliments. You should know better than that. A test: seeing me like this, what do you think I’m about?”
When Brandel had first joined her household a year past, with the bait of an armin’s training and the promise to make a courtier of him, he had expected to spend his time in the fencing salle and swaggering about town in her wake. Barbara hadn’t the heart to put him through the same ruthless program she had known, but he’d soon learned to expect these challenges. Half an armin’s duty involved observation and prediction. She waited, watching Brandel’s thoughts turn over.
“You aren’t going riding,” he began slowly. “You’re wearing your riding coat, but the breeches are wrong.”
The long-skirted coat fell halfway between that of a woman’s habit and a more masculine style. Her tailor had slowly adapted to her suggestions and demands.
“And besides which, I heard them bringing the light gig into the courtyard, not riding horses. You would never wear that waistcoat if you meant to be active. I’ve only seen you wear it before when you attended the sessions last spring. You said it made you look more serious, but that time you wore it with skirts.”
Barbara nodded to encourage him.
“And it isn’t ordinary visiting or you wouldn’t wear breeches at all, unless you mean to shock someone.” Brandel’s analytical powers were reaching their limits.
“What if I specifically intend not to shock people?”
He bit his lip in thought and shook his head.
Barbara r
elented. “I intend to visit a man at a club.”
Brandel’s face brightened. “May I attend you? I’ve never—”
“No,” she said quellingly. “This calls for a more delicate touch. Go tell Tavit to come see me. Wait.”
He paused at the door.
“What was it you came to ask about? It wasn’t to admire my ensemble.”
“My lessons,” Brandel said. “You said you’d find someone to replace my tutor, but if you haven’t, I need to know what you want me to study.”
Oh yes, drat the man. No, it wasn’t his fault an ailing parent had called him away to the country. She hadn’t forgotten, but November was a poor time for hiring scholars. Good ones, at least. “Thank you for the reminder, Brandel. Now go fetch Tavit.”
Tavit was far more perceptive in the nuances of her dress. His surprise was not for the purpose of her excursion but its venue. “I thought women weren’t allowed in clubs.”
“It depends,” Barbara said. “In most, it isn’t actually forbidden, it simply isn’t done. Back before the succession debates, the dowager princess was quite familiar in the Zurik and Jourdain’s.” It was a thin precedent, but not the only one she was relying on. “I hope not to provoke a fuss, so I will be enough of a man for their comfort and enough of a woman for my respectability.”
Tavit looked puzzled but asked, “Have you any special instructions?”
Barbara picked up her gloves and hat and turned to him. “If anyone should object to my presence, don’t take it as insult or threat. I have no right to entrance. And though a man without membership might visit a friend with no comment, it will spoil my purpose if too much notice is taken. This one time, resistance shall be met with retreat. I’ll let you know if you need do anything beyond standing and waiting.”
He nodded in acknowledgment, and then after some hesitation, “Mesnera, may I ask you something?”
The edge of tension in Tavit’s voice caught Barbara’s attention. Under the strict rules of her own service, she had always asked permission to speak, but she’d never demanded that of those who served her. “Yes?” she said.
Mother of Souls: A novel of Alpennia Page 13
