“Only it wasn’t me. It wasn’t me. It was the king.” Istvan broke off.
Every one of us in the room knew exactly what he meant. I was the only one to say it. “Good King Julian.”
Istvan looked at me. “Do you still call him that? Two hundred years in the future? He’s still Good King Julian?”
“It’s not the future,” I reminded him. “It’s now.”
Istvan shook his head. “I didn’t know that. I didn’t know where I was. Or when. But I knew I wasn’t Julian. I understood that she was calling Julian. I don’t know why. I could have answered her call and perhaps she might never have realized the difference. But I knew that if I did, if I came any closer, I would never turn away from her again. But she wasn’t calling me, So I could turn away. If I gave it all my strength, I could even walk away.
“I tried to turn to go back up the stairs. I couldn’t reach them. It was like walking into a high wind or wading against a strong current. I couldn’t go back. But there was a door, and I could open it.
“I walked out.”
Istvan paused, and the silence lasted a long time. It was a solid silence, a silence that drew out until even he noticed it. He had been looking into nothing, into the past, perhaps. But gradually he remembered us, and finally he spoke again.
“I walked out. Two men tried to stop me. I’m sure I killed one. The other, I don’t know. The woman wanted me to return. I wanted to leave. The farther I drew away from her, the easier it became. After a while, I could go quite fast. After a while, I could run away from the call. That was the only sense of direction I had. My bearings were gone. I only knew I had to get away from her. I did.”
After another long pause he continued. “It took me some time to realize where I was, even after the sun was well up. I’d been to Ardres before. The last time, things looked quite different. I realized that a bit of time must have passed, for the damage to have been repaired so well. I had no idea how long it had been. Two hundred years…”
The prince-bishop’s voice was extremely dry. “You traveled to Ardres? You are sure?”
“I traveled from Ardres. I am very sure. As soon as I had my bearings, I headed downriver. Away. By midday, I had reached the bridge at Folliard. There used to be good fishing there. I was hungry. That was where I encountered Hail.”
The prince-bishop and Istvan looked at me. So did Amyas and Ludovic Nallaneen, but with a good deal less gravity.
“Hail helped you come here,” said Rigo. “You needn’t look so stern. She won’t do it again.”
I turned on Rigo. “What do you mean? I haven’t finished helping him yet.” Even if he no longer looked like the king come again, Istvan still knew Maspero. He remembered what Aravis was like more than two hundred years before. He was the Seraph, the king’s own champion. Any help I could offer was his without asking. “I’ve scarcely begun.”
Amyas stifled a groan.
The prince-bishop turned his attention back to Istvan. “Do you know precisely where the calling occurred? Was it in Ardres itself?”
“Not within the stronghold proper. I passed no fortifications.”
“Nearby?”
“Not between me and the river.”
“You said two men tried to stop you. Are you sure there were only two?”
“No. I don’t remember clearly.”
“Did either of them refer to the woman by name? Could you describe her?”
“I just have.”
“Red hair, green eyes. Could you provide any more details?”
“No.” Either in an effort at recollection or for mere weariness, Istvan closed his eyes. “She was small. Slim. I don’t know. She had a gleeful look when she smiled. Like a fox.”
“Or a ferret.” The prince-bishop’s voice was dryer than ever. “That is Dalet. I conjectured that she was working for Edward of Ardres. This may not prove it, but it gives me confidence to proceed in accordance with my beliefs.”
“Dalet? Who’s that?” I asked.
“Red Ned?” Amyas looked intrigued. “He really does call dead people back to life?”
“How?” I asked.
“Why?” asked Amyas in the same moment.
The prince-bishop looked disdainful. “Only our blessed Savior does that. I admit it seems as though something very like it has occurred here. Apparently Dalet has called back someone. Perhaps she miscalculated. For it seems clear she expected Good King Julian and someone else answered instead.” He studied Istvan dispassionately. “Why did you answer when you were not called?”
Despair was plain in lstvan’s face, but his voice was steady. “I don’t know.”
“A few months ago,” the prince-bishop began, “there was a robbery at the convent of St. Barbara. The tomb of Queen Andred the Fair was violated. The jewels interred with the queen were stolen. After some difficulty in finding the records, the archivists here at the palace library succeeded in locating an inventory of the queen’s possessions at the time of her death. Andred was buried with a copy of the Aravis siege medal, an enamel brooch, a gold band on her left ring finger, and, on the index finger of her right hand, a man’s ring set with a piece of jasper.”
All the prince-bishop’s attention was concentrated on Istvan, so he could not have missed his startled expression. He continued. “The assumption, at the time of the queen’s death, was that the ring had belonged to the king. It was the queen’s express wish that she be buried with it.”
The silence in the chapel was vibrant with unspoken speculation. Finally Istvan broke it. “That explains why I was the one who answered that woman. That was my ring, not His Highness’s.”
The prince-bishop spoke, his attention focused on Istvan. “Prompted by the robbery of Queen Andred’s tomb, we made good use of the palace archives to learn what had been buried with her king. We know what was interred with King Julian’s remains at the Abbey of St. Istvan: a golden ring, a small prayer book, and a copy of the Aravis siege medal. In light of your account, I think it would be wise to keep close watch on the king’s tomb. We will send someone north.”
“Send me,” said Istvan.
“One man cannot guard that place. I must send many. But not you. Your account of Dalet’s behavior is too valuable to us.”
“Dispatch what men you will. Let me bear them company.”
“You will remain here in the palace. Suitable arrangements will be made.”
“You think it will happen again. It mustn’t.” Istvan’s eyes were wide.
“That is no concern of yours. You wished our help. We must be permitted to help as we see fit.” The prince-bishop turned his full attention to me. It was as if the temperature in the chapel increased suddenly. I felt the heat climb my neck and arms, prickle up into my scalp. I returned him look for look. It was difficult, but I did it.
“I understand you have crafted a replica of the Aravis siege medal, and that you carry the fake upon your person. Please surrender it to me.”
Replica. Fake. Curious, what power words possess. I kept my temper, but the sting his scorn provoked dismayed me.
Rigo gave me a kind smile. “Do as he asks, child. At least here you have witnesses to the confiscation.”
Unwillingly, I brought forth my bundle, surprisingly small for the amount of work and trouble it had cost. I fumbled the knot loose and rolled the medal out of the scarf into the prince-bishop’s outstretched palm.
His appreciation of the medal was plain. I savored the long moment of silent appraisal. I would have enjoyed it more had it not been mixed so obviously with astonishment.
“You are an accomplished craftsman. It is unfortunate that you have forsaken your studies.”
“I haven’t.” My indignation made it hard to pick out the right words and speak them intelligibly. “I am an apprentice in Madame Carriera’s workshop.”
“At the moment, however, you are here. While you are here, I trust you will accept the hospitality of the palace. You and your family. Captain Nallaneen and his men
will be here too. The clergymen you spoke with at St. Peter’s understand the need for discretion. There is no need for them to join us here.”
Amyas looked fierce. “Are we all under arrest? For what crime?”
“You may call it house arrest, if you wish. It is for your protection and the protection of the realm. Those who saw this man in his earlier state may not understand the need for discretion.”
“He doesn’t look a bit like the king now,” I protested.
“Even if he still did,” said Amyas, “what of it? No one could think he really was Good King Julian.”
“When the king comes home,” said the prince-bishop. “Who knows what marvels might ensue if the king comes home?”
King Corin was old and ill. Any ceremonies held at court waited upon the wax and wane of his health. Thus the prince-bishop held us at the palace with no more explanation than that we had done some small service for the crown. We would be rewarded for it, some day when the king’s health was robust enough to permit.
My father and Amyas and I were lodged in comfort. There was some prestige attached to the arrangement, and my father was able to conduct his business by messenger almost as well as he could have if he were free.
Amyas was bored, but he spent his time with those of Nallaneen’s men who would permit him to listen to their tales. Some card games were played, but Amyas acquitted himself well enough that the sport of fleecing the newcomer soon palled.
Istvan spent much of his time in prayer, usually in the Archangel Chapel. I liked it there too. My notebook was soon crowded with studies of my favorite details from the altarpiece.
“Why do you pray so hard?” I asked Istvan. “Most people look calm. You look fierce.”
“You ought to be praying yourself instead of watching other people.”
“I do pray. Sometimes. But I must watch people. It’s part of my training. Why do you pray so much?”
“It helps. I don’t know what to do. If I pray, sometimes I can think more clearly. At least I can see what not to do.”
“I thought you might say you were repenting. You were the Seraph, King Julian’s angel of death. I thought you might have killed so many men that you were still repenting them.”
Istvan studied the altarpiece. “The Seraph. Yes, sometimes they called me that. Ridiculous.”
“Wasn’t it true, then?”
“What?”
“Wasn’t it true that you killed a lot of men?”
“Oh, yes. That’s true. I don’t repent that. I wish I hadn’t let them give me such a nickname. It was the fashion, though. I thought it was better to answer to that one lest they find another, something worse.”
“How could they give you silly nicknames when you were so dangerous? Why weren’t they afraid of you?”
“I was the kings champion. How could I pursue a private quarrel? That would bring dishonor to His Highness.” Istvan looked at me. “To be honest, most of them were afraid of me.”
“Was Maspero afraid of you?”
“If I cut off your head, would it say Maspero inside?”
“In golden letters. Did he like you?”
“Why aren’t you afraid of me? What have I done wrong?”
“I don’t know. Perhaps I’m so afraid of the prince-bishop, I don’t have room to be afraid of you too. Were you friends with Maspero?”
“No. No one was. Maspero was a lout.”
“He was a great artist.”
“He was an undisciplined churl who managed to fulfill a few commissions between bouts of drinking and fornication. If he’d been half as good at painting as he was at talking, he’d have been a passable artist. Only passable.”
“So you didn’t like him?”
“No. He talked a lot of rubbish about individuality and emblems and souls and symbols. He borrowed money and didn’t repay it. He could hold his liquor, I’ll grant him that.” Istvan looked curious. “How came you to fall ill with this Masperous fever? Are there no artists here and now?”
“I have studied his work. Mistress Carriera says that there is no truer portrait than the profile, and no one did a purer profile than Maspero.”
“He drew them purely enough down in the alehouses, for pints of stout or bitter. He’d wager he could capture a likeness in four lines or fewer, and then he’d scratch the portrait into the wooden tabletop. Nose first. That’s what I know about Maspero. Take your bit of knowledge and be content. He always started with the nose.”
EIGHT
(In which I leave.)
I was watching Istvan at his devotions two days later when Ludovic Nallaneen found us in the Archangel Chapel. “You’re both here.” He settled down to wait for Istvan to finish. “Good.”
“Is this an official visit?” I asked. “Are we wanted?”
Ludovic gave me a long look, as if he were trying to decide which of my questions to answer, and with what degree of gravity. “Purely unofficial. I may not be here at all. In fact, probably not.” To emphasize his supposed insubstantiality, Ludovic bowed his head and began to pray.
As a courtesy, I prayed a little myself, but it was difficult to concentrate. Eventually, Istvan joined us.
Ludovic concluded his worship promptly. “I’ve come to ask you for my cloak. Do you still have it?”
Istvan looked perplexed. “What cloak?”
“The cloak with the hood you wore so that no one saw your face on the way from Shene to the palace. That cloak belongs to me. The weather has been warm so I’ve had no need of it. Without it I am out of uniform. There are some sticklers at the officers mess. I need it back before someone notices.”
“Oh. Yes, I have it. Shall I get it now?”
“I’ll collect it tomorrow. To remind you of it is my true reason for being here today, in case anyone asks. Mark this. My presence has nothing whatever to do with the rumor that the prince-bishop has changed his mind and is going to charge Hail with her coining and imprison her.”
“I never—” My words were cut off as Ludovic put his hand over my mouth. His eyes held mine.
“Don’t tell me again, Hail. I know. You didn’t. But if you are wise, you won’t deny the rumor until it turns real. Put together what you can to take with you to the cells. It’s cold down there, even at this season. Ask your father for what money he can spare. No matter how vile the cell, the necessities can usually be had, at a price.” Ludovic released me.
“I never counterfeited anything.”
“The prince-bishop’s charges against you have nothing to do with his true motives. He ordered that Istvan conceal his face on the way to the palace. Anyone who saw him when he looked like Good King Julian has been ordered to stay here, under the prince-bishop’s eye. But house arrest isn’t sufficient in your case, it seems. You found Istvan. You and your family brought him to Aravis. He doesn’t trust your discretion.”
“Istvan isn’t Julian. What is there to be discreet about?”
“See how right the prince-bishop is? You must ask him that question some time. No, to be honest, I don’t recommend it. Don’t you see? The prince-bishop doesn’t expect the rumors of Good King Julian’s return to subside. It doesn’t matter that he knows them to be false.”
“What difference does a rumor make? Good King Julian hasn’t come again. We have a perfectly good king on the throne. Why does the prince-bishop care about me?”
“The harvest failed last year. It’s going to fail again. There’s going to be trouble. I don’t know how long the prince-bishop can prop King Corin on the throne, and neither does he. You’re the least of his worries.”
“Then why does he want to lock me up?”
“You recognized Julian’s face. You talk too much. He doesn’t know what to expect from you.”
“Do you really think I talk too much?”
“Yes. Never mind that. Tell your father what I’ve said. Warn him to be ready. Your imprisonment will be surety of his good behavior as well.”
“Father hasn’t done anything wr
ong!”
“Of course he hasn’t. Nor will he, with you at risk.” Ludovic rose. “Nor was I ever here. Remember.” He left us.
The silence in the chapel after his departure was precious to me. Once it broke, I would have to act. As long as it lasted, Ludovic’s words were mere possibility. I did not have to decide whether to accept them or ignore them. Either way, I would have to take action. But not just yet. Not while my beleaguered wits were trying to make sense of the threats, to me, to my father, to the rest of my family.
Istvan stared at me without speaking, almost stared through me. I thought he might return to his prayers, so intent was he on some inner vision. When he broke the silence at last, his voice was low and slow. “You’ll come with me. I can’t take you home to Neven. But you may come with me part of the way. Could you travel alone from Ardres to Neven?”
Too astonished to speak, I nodded. For the first time since Rigo had given him back his true appearance, Istvan revealed the intensity he’d shown when he’d endured our raft journey downriver in order to find a priest. What serenity he’d possessed was gone. What patience he’d employed to endure my questions about Maspero was outworn.
“We can’t spare the time to tell your father. Too many questions. I have a few things I’ve gathered, in case. Wait here while I fetch them. If anyone else comes in while I’m gone, pray. It will do you good.”
Alone in the chapel, too distracted to pray, I folded my hands over my notebook and waited. I looked at the donor panel. Istvan was there, guarding the king and queen. It seemed odd to think that he was prepared to guard me too.
When he returned, Istvan had Ludovic’s cloak bundled under his arm. At his murmured order, I followed him out of the chapel, along an unfamiliar corridor, and down two flights of stairs. At the landing of a third, he stopped and pulled me through brocade hangings into a window embrasure. It was a clear morning, and the sunlight caught between the glass and the brocade made the small enclosure breathlessly warm.
“Don’t speak unless you must and then keep your voice down. Even a whisper may carry.”
I nodded. “Where are we going?”
[Galazon 00] When the King Comes Home Page 9
