Valour and Vanity

by Mary Robinette Kowal

  Jane took a step closer to her husband. “How do you know this?”

  He looked uncomfortable for a moment in ways that had nothing to do with his physical condition. Then he shrugged. “I heard them talking. You left the bouclé torsadée tied off in the parlour.”

  A frisson of cold ran through Jane. She had forgotten to untie that one when she was trying to remove her other traces from the room. “Did Biasio see it?”

  “Not yet. Though that is also a concern. For the moment it is fine, as I was able to untie it and change the spiral to carry sound instead of—”

  “From here.” Jane gaped for a moment. He had lost his mind. He had completely lost all sense of proportion if he thought that untying her end of the bouclé torsadée from here approached reasonable. To alter such a long thread on top of untying it was rash. The risks that he took with his health were indefensible. She clenched her hands into fists and fought for a level tone. “Ladies, gentlemen. Would you give me a moment of privacy with my husband?”

  The Abbess looked immensely relieved. With a significant glance to Lord Byron, she pulled the door shut and left Jane and Vincent alone in the little room.

  Jane struggled to present a measured composure. As much as she wanted to shout at him for showing so little sense, he was clearly ill. “I know that your plan requires tremendous effort, but I agreed to it because I thought it had some chance of success, without too much risk. Now I am not so sure. You must rest.”

  Vincent lowered his head to rest upon his hands. They trembled, as though palsied. “Jane, I will grant that I over-reached today, but going over our plan will not tire me any further. This is perfectly normal fatigue.”

  “This is not normal fatigue. Your hands are shaking; you cannot stand; you were ill. The only time—the only time—that I have seen you in this state was right before your collapse at Lady FitzCameron’s. Do you think I want to watch you go into convulsions again because you are too stupid to admit that you have limits?” Jane would shake him, if she thought it would make him see reason. “You almost died, Vincent, and you have apparently learned nothing since.”

  “You are exaggerating.” His voice was level, but he knit his fingers together so that the tremors were masked. “I have already admitted that I am tired, but the glamour I worked today was quite large, so that is to be expected.”

  “You had a collapse.”

  “I must tell you that it is extremely tiresome to have you constantly scolding me about my health when I am perfectly well.”

  Perfectly well? He was asserting that he was well when he was so dizzy that he could not stand. “I would not need to scold you if you would stop lying to me.”

  Vincent jerked his head back as though she had slapped him. Even that movement caused his face to pale. He closed his eyes and bared his teeth in a grimace. For a moment, Vincent breathed sharply through his nose, with his hands gripping his knees as though they were all that supported him.

  Jane choked the urge to crouch in front of her husband to ascertain the state of his health. She already knew that it was poor, and the gesture would irritate him. And yet, watching him, she thought that this was something more than over-exertion. “Signor Zancani told me that you have fainted a number of times while performing. When you asserted that you had recovered fully from your injury, that was not true, was it?”

  “I cannot afford to be unwell.”

  “You cannot afford to kill yourself. If for no other reason than that it would distress me. Think of that, if you do not value yourself enough to take care.” She crossed the room to sit next to him on the bed. “How badly are you still suffering from the concussion?”

  His breath hissed out in an almost inaudible whine of protest as he prepared to lie to her, again. Then he sighed, letting his head loll forward. “It is irregular. Most days, I truly am perfectly fit. Other days, my head aches if I so much as look at glamour. Vertigo. Sometimes light hurts my eyes.”

  The evening when he had been sitting in the dark and they had quarrelled suddenly took on new shape. “Why did you not say something?”

  “Because I was already pitying myself enough.” Vincent relaxed his arms and released his grip upon his knees. “And there is nothing to be done, and you would worry and ask me not to work. And I was going mad.”

  She could not say that his reasons were invalid. “Chasing Spada is not worth your health.”

  “Walking away would kill me just as surely.” Vincent spread his hands, as though to demonstrate that he was helpless in this, then clenched them when the tremors became apparent again. “It is not in my nature, Muse.”

  “I know.” Jane rubbed her head, as though by chafing her scalp she could force her brain into a different configuration so that they could think of a plan that did not involve endangering Vincent. She stared at the door, where the pattern of light beneath it was broken by the shadows of feet. In a low voice, she asked, “Do you think they are listening to us?”

  He looked at the door and nodded. “What will it take for you to feel comfortable moving forward with the plan?”

  Her husband was the world’s most impossible man. Unless she actually tied him to the bed, she doubted that she would be able to stop him from working. Even then, he would most likely continue to fret himself into a state. “I need you to promise me that you will not touch glamour for the rest of today, and all of tomorrow.” Jane marked that off on her thumb and moved to listing on her fingers. “You must go to bed as soon as we finish talking here. Regular meals. Complete honesty about your health. Allow me to make the decision on when you need to stop working.”

  “I would never work again if that decision rested with you.” He ran his hand through his hair. “I misjudged my limits once in the years that I have been working. Once. And the circumstances there … That was a unique situation. It will not occur again.”

  “What was unique? That you had been working for weeks without rest?”

  “That I was showing off for a woman I wanted to court.” Vincent took her hand and traced the spot where her wedding band should have been. “Please believe me, Muse, when I say that under normal circumstances I would have declined the request to perform a tableau vivant, or chosen a simpler subject.”

  Had he really almost died because he had been trying to impress her? The spectre of his convulsions still haunted her at times. He did not remember that night, or what it had been like to watch his back arch and his heels drum against the floor. The similarities between his countenance then and now were unmistakable. “And today?”

  Vincent tucked in his chin and studied the floor. “I promised that I would come for you.”

  Jane could find no reply.

  He lifted her hand and kissed her fingers. “Thank you for being concerned for me, but I knew the risk and was willing to pay it. I am not so poor a judge of my own health as you believe.”

  If he could see himself now, he would not make such an assertion. His face was grey with exhaustion, and dragged down as though he were ten years older than he was. Jane leaned against him. “So what do you propose now?”

  “That I not touch glamour for the next day. Probably two. And that we let people back in so that I can explain the amended plan to them.” A sudden yawn split his face, and Vincent covered his mouth, grimacing.

  “And then we go back to the apartment to sleep.”

  “I think I need to stay here.”

  Just when she thought that he was being reasonable, of course he would refuse to go to sleep. There were times when getting Vincent to rest was like managing an infant. “Someone else can stay here to watch Spada.”

  “Yes, but—”

  “You need to rest.”

  Vincent cleared his throat and looked away from her. “I cannot walk a straight line, Muse. I think I need to stay the night here. Or at least remain until the room stops spinning.”

  “Oh.” Given that reason, it was difficult to protest. But if he would go to bed, no matter where, then she wo
uld be much relieved. “And you promise you will sleep?”

  “I do not think I have a choice.” He squeezed her hand and covered another yawn. “Though I doubt it will reassure you, I feel terrible, but do not think I am truly unwell. Much of the nausea is due to the vertigo lingering from the concussion.”

  “It seems to me that Spada and his men have much to pay for.”

  “It is distinctly unpleasant.” He rubbed his brow again, and his hand still trembled. That was not an effect of the concussion, she was certain. “Did I tell you that I think I have figured out how the lion in Trieste was done?”

  “Are you trying to distract me?”

  “Yes.” He peeked at her from under his hand. “Is it working?”

  She shook her head, but it was hard to maintain the stern expression he deserved. She was, in fact, curious about his idea, but the fact that his thoughts so quickly turned to glamour made her suspect that it would be impossible to keep him from working it.

  “Truly? I could talk about trebled folds and spliced braids. The Romans could not have taken the time to render a lion between productions, so it must be a recording taken from two stations.”

  “Vincent…”

  “Does the idea not intrigue—no, I see it does not. What if I said that I suspect the Romans used paired glamourists?” He sighed and lowered his hand. “Muse … may we call people back in?”

  “Before you start, there is something that I should tell you about the room. It will affect our plans.” She paused and reached for the ether to weave a bubble of silence. Just in case, it would be best if Lord Byron did not overhear her. Within the silence, she gave a hurried recital of what she had seen and overheard while standing in the room.

  When she finished, Vincent rubbed his chin in thought. “Well…” He looked toward the door, as if he could see Lord Byron in the hall and ascertain his role. His voice stayed low. “Well … I do not think it is in his character.”

  “Regardless. Do we want to discuss our plans with him?”

  “He is fickle, but I cannot think of him as being so utterly without honour.”

  “What of his affairs?”

  “That is diff—” He sighed and looked even more miserable than his illness had rendered him. “I suppose it is not. Let us proceed, then, with caution and take into account that someone might betray our confidence.”

  “Like my mother.” Jane winced, thinking of the letter she had found.

  “Exactly so. Even if it is by accident.”

  “How do you propose we proceed, then?”

  “By doing what I did to you in Binché. We do not tell them our whole plan.”

  “I cannot like that.”

  “Nor I. Have you another suggestion?”

  Almost, Jane wanted to call the whole thing off and simply wait until January for her father to reply to her letter to Melody. That would be the safest and most prudent course. But even given Vincent’s current state, she could see what it would do to him to walk away. “Do you still want to call our friends back?”

  “If you will untie the silence.”

  She did so with some apprehension, but Vincent smiled, and though he was clearly still fatigued, that little smirk did much to restore her spirits. He raised his voice. “Zancani, you may come in.”

  The door opened immediately. The puppet player stepped in, followed not long after by the Abbess. With his red wig removed, his appearance was transformed. “So? You have kissed and made up?”

  “Not while she is wearing those whiskers.” Vincent squeezed Jane’s hand. “But yes, thank you. Come in. We have things to discuss.”

  Jane rubbed the wool side whiskers and rolled her eyes. “I tried pulling them off, but…”

  “Let me help. I have a good deal of practise with whiskers.” The puppet player carried a small wooden box and knelt next to Jane. “Talk to us. Tell us your great plan while I restore Lady Vincent.”

  The Abbess crossed her arms and stood in the door. “And then you are going to bed. Both of you.”

  “Yes, madam.” Vincent nodded. “You may be certain that my wife has made that very clear.”

  Lord Byron sauntered in and leaned against the wall. He wrinkled his nose. “Shall I open the window?”

  “Please.” Vincent winced, flushing. “And apologies.”

  “You should smell the inside of a puppet booth after a show. This is nothing.” At Jane’s side, Signor Zancani dabbed her cheek with something that smelled of brandy and tugged on the wool. It stung as he peeled it up, but it seemed to be releasing from her skin.

  Vincent shifted on the bed, seeming uncomfortable to be seated while women were standing, but he had enough sense not to rise. He rubbed the back of his neck. “Lady Vincent made some discoveries while in the palazzo that will require us to move faster than we had planned. Sister Franceschina, would you and the other nuns in the scriptorium have enough time to do the copying by Monday?”

  The elderly nun studied pages of notes, which had quick sketches of the journal. “Yes … yes, that is possible. Written and bound by Monday.”

  They had not gone all the way through the book before Jane had been interrupted. She shook her head. This would not work. “What about the rest of the pages? It will do us no good to have a half-empty book.”

  “My guess is that they have only given close study to the pages concerning the Verre Obscurci.” Vincent squinted at Sister Franceschina. “What if I write in the book after you are finished?”

  That meant additional work for Vincent, when what she wanted most was for him to rest, so Jane proposed an alternative. “We are asking them to forge the other pages—why not these as well? I can tell them the sorts of things to write.”

  Sister Franceschina nodded. “We could likely do that, yes.”

  For a moment, it looked as though Vincent would protest that he was well enough, but he nodded. “Thank you. That would be a great help. And by Monday?”

  Sister Franceschina turned through the pages again before giving a nod, but there was more hesitation there. “If the Abbess gives permission to burn extra candles.”

  “So long as you do not miss services or prayers.” The Abbess looked back to Vincent. “We will need all the prayer possible if this is to succeed.”

  “We have another problem,” Signor Zancani peeled the top of the other side whisker free of Jane’s face. “This Spada saw us in the hall, so the plan to regain the spheres will not work.”

  Vincent’s brow furrowed. “Why not? Did he recognise Jane?”

  “No, of course not.” The puppet player looked affronted that the efficacy of his disguise would be questioned. “But she had removed the paunch. She is thus established for him as a slender man.”

  Jane closed her eyes, remembering the meeting in front of the water entrance. “I used it to start a fire.”

  “I was wondering.”

  “Can someone else go in to obtain them?” the Abbess asked. “It seems to me that our reason for sending Lady Vincent in the first place was to identify the papers, which she has done. And in the second, because her role would be established. But the spheres are surely easier to identify than the papers. Can we not send another?”

  “The strong room,” Jane said, her heart clenching with realization.

  “Pardon?”

  “The measurements for the hall were off because there is a strong room in the middle of the palazzo. To get inside will require a glamourist.”

  Here, the puppet player looked confused. “I thought that glamour was only an illusion.”

  “It is mostly an illusion.” Vincent sighed and squeezed his eyes tightly shut, as if the thought alone pained him. “A strong room is a room with corporeal locks that are masked by glamour. To undo the locks, one must first undo the glamour in order to see them. Undo it in the wrong order, and an alarm will sound. The illusion of noise is quite as effective as the real thing when creating an alarm.”

  Lord Byron cursed liberally, and the Abbess looked a
lmost as though she would like to join him. Signor Zancani said, “That is unfortunate.”

  Squinting, Vincent nodded and grimaced. “I know. I do not like it either, but it will have to be either Jane or me, and Spada just saw her.” Shaking his head, he stopped, took a breath, and turned to the puppet player. “Do you think you could make a French officer’s uniform by Thursday?”

  “I thought you said he was from Lombardy-Venetia.”

  “He is, but a French representative is due on Friday, and we can say he came early. Besides which, I speak French and not Venetian.” Vincent’s hand trembled as he lowered it to his side. “So, the costume?”

  Jane started as she realized what he was contemplating. “You cannot be serious.” He wanted to go into the palazzo as the French representative. “We have already discussed this. Signor Zancani has said before that he did not think he could sufficiently disguise you.”

  “I was not thinking of using cosmetics.”

  “Glamour?”

  When he nodded, everyone in the room protested with a rapidity and vehemence that gratified Jane. She was not alone in seeing that he had pushed himself past the limits of what the human body could endure.

  “Can you tell me another way?” Vincent lifted his head. Even as battered as he was, he appeared absolutely confident. The room silenced.

  Jane searched for another option to get herself or Vincent into the palazzo. They could deliver a crate with her inside—which Spada would certainly search, and even then, how would she exit the property? Rob the house, under the cover of night—except that someone always seemed to be awake at the palazzo.

  “You are unwell.” It did not even begin to cover his condition.

  Vincent looked grave and did not attempt to disagree, though she could not tell whether that was because she had made an impression on him or because he felt even worse than he was willing to admit. “I would not attempt it tomorrow, or even the day after, but we have close to a week.” Jane drew breath to speak, but Vincent held up his hand. “And if we come up with another way to accomplish this between now and then, I will gladly give up the plan.”