I wondered what relief, if any, Istvan had been able to muster since his return. Whatever it might have been, it was long gone from his thoughts, judging by his expression. Lost souls must look so.
He was not quite lost to all but his own pain. When the horse Ludovic had given him had been saddled, and when his pack was filled with the supplies Ludovic’s men had shared out for him, when his arms were in order, when his cloak was nearly dry, he remembered me.
Istvan looked around resignedly, almost absently, as one looks around when it is time to put the cat out for the night. I realized that he was looking for me, and I suspected that he could not remember my name. Before he could confirm the impression, I stepped close.
“Do you want to take the pistol with you?” I asked.
A little of his preoccupation drifted away while he, with obvious effort, recollected the pistol. “No. You keep it.”
“How will you kill her then?”
“Ludovic has loaned me his sword.”
“His two-handed sword?” I glanced, amazed, over at Ludovic. “But that’s his own true love.”
“I’m out of uniform when I carry it,” Ludovic said. “Istvan will make good use of it.”
Istvan’s eyes cleared a little. Amusement gleamed and was replaced with something like fondness. “Remember this much advice when I am gone,” he said to me. “If you want someone to support and help you, ask them for a favor.”
“What will you ask of me, then?”
“Go back to Aravis. Be safe. Be careful”
“Oh, is that all?”
Istvan flicked a finger lightly at one of my earrings, enough to set it swinging. “Be civil to these poor fellows as they try to guard you on the way. They’re only doing their duty.”
He left us then in the rising day. We watched him go in silence. His way would be well marked by the men Ludovic had set on Dalet’s path. None of us, I think, held any hope that we would see Istvan, or Julian, again.
THIRTEEN
(In which I am confined.)
It took three days to travel from the Folliard Bridge, where I had first seen Istvan, where I had last seen Istvan, to Aravis. The prince-bishop’s guardsmen, under Ludovic Nallaneen’s command, could have done the distance more quickly. For some reason, they, particularly Tig, seemed determined to show me some consideration.
Unfortunately, I was too weary to appreciate it. Although my clothes had dried on me as I watched through the night at Istvan’s side, the chill of the river had not left me. I was well able to ride, to walk, to do whatever was expected of me. Yet there was a kind of fuzziness in my head, my appetite had vanished, and by the end of each day’s ride my bones ached with fatigue. Two steps away from the horses, with Tig steering me, and I’d fall into my place, wrap the blanket around me, and sleep until the morning racket as the others made ready for off.
After the journey, I was taken to the prince-bishop. I ought to have dreaded this considerably. I was too tired to care. The fuzz in my head seemed to interfere with my eyes, my ears, even my balance. The footing of perfectly ordinary streets seemed as unreliable as deep sand beneath me, and my sense of direction had deserted me completely. I had Tig to guide me, thank goodness. Ludovic had ordered him to guard me. “Stay with her. Understand? If she leaves, you leave—and send me word where. But don’t let her leave. Don’t let her do anything.”
So I had Tig at my elbow, looking disgusted at the world in general, when I knelt before the prince-bishop. I waited for him to speak. I remembered that it wouldn’t be right to address him before he had acknowledged me. I couldn’t remember why. I only knew Tig wouldn’t let me sleep until I went through with it.
The prince-bishop let me kneel before him for quite some time before he spoke in a deep, cold voice. “Are you the girl who counterfeits currency? Are you the chit who ran away—stole a pistol and broke house arrest? Abducted a guest of ours from this place and took him no man may say where?”
I ought to have felt steady enough, kneeling at his feet, but the floor had gone all soft and floating. It was like being back on the river, on our raft. Distracted by this curious feeling, I did not answer.
The prince-bishop prompted me. “Well? Speak!”
I knew what I should do. I could not help Istvan or anyone else if I were mouldering in the palace dungeon. I ought to spring to my feet and answer back with spirit. I ought to counter the charges, refute them, debate my way to the door and depart, intent on my task.
Instead, the thought of mustering so much will exhausted me. I held my peace and kept my place. Indeed, it was all I could do to stay kneeling there. I wanted to lie down flat, stretch out my arms and legs, press my cheek to the cool floor and sleep.
The prince-bishop sounded far away. “I order you to answer me.”
The floor pitched beneath me, as if our raft had found a snag. I lost my balance and tried to catch myself, to offer up some word of excuse. Too late. I could say nothing, do nothing, hear nothing. I could only sleep.
I am told that it was the prince-bishop himself who sent for Rigo. He had seen enough of me to realize, I learned, that no power short of sorcery could make me hold my tongue. Therefore sorcery was at work. Therefore Rigo was sent for. Rigo removed a spell of Dale’s—this time as easily as I might have removed my earrings. The spell was explained to me after I awoke, yawning and ravenous, sticky eyed, head aching with too much sleep.
How Dalet cast a spell on me, Rigo was not sure. He suspected my helping still the maddened horse might have had something to do with it. But she had infected me with a kind of sleeping sickness, one that dulled wits, diminished desire, and dampened anger. This had done its work so that I had not even been aware of my changed state.
By the time I was in my right senses again, Istvan had been gone five days and Julian a night longer. I came near losing patience at this news. Anything might have happened in that time. Any fate at all might have befallen both or either of them and none of us ever the wiser.
I tried to explain as much to Amyas when he brought me fresh clothing.
“I’m glad you’re awake again,” he told me, “but don’t you think it’s time you give up playing truant and started to pay attention to your own family?”
“Meaning you? Very well. How are you, Amyas?”
“Oh, wake up all the way and think for once. You could be in a dungeon this minute, but for Rigo.”
Clearly Amyas wanted me to be as agitated as he was. I tried to distract him from the possibilities for drama in hope it would calm him. “Yes, I hear he pleased the prince-bishop. And you seem in good favor with Rigo, Tig tells me. So what scheme have you in hand, brother? An apprenticeship in the arts magical? Going to take service with Rigo, are you?”
“Don’t change the subject. At this rate you’ll finish attainted for treason. What possessed you to break house arrest?”
“What possessed you to tell Istvan about pistols?”
Amyas frowned. “Istvan? Oh, Fisher. That’s right, I did, didn’t I?”
“That’s right, you did. If I’m to be accused of thievery on top of everything else, you are an accessory yourself, may I remind you. It was pure folly—he might have blown his head off.”
“And you such an expert when it comes to firearms too. What became of it, anyway? Did Ludovic take it away from him?”
“It’s in my pack. Or it was. Perhaps they’ve confiscated it.” Amyas emerged from a swift rummage through my things, which had been left in a heap at the foot of my untidy bed. “No, here it is. Good balance, this. Here—” He turned swiftly and came back to me, where I was watching him from the edge of the bed. “You’ve changed the subject again. Stop doing that.”
“Well, you talk then. Tell me the news. How’s Father?”
“Father is worried half to death. He spent all his time watching over you. Then, once Rigo broke the spell, he went back to trying to persuade the prince bishop to let us all go home. The prince-bishop won’t permit it. The whole city is
in an uproar. Dispatches keep coming in from Ardres—rumor says every message is worse than the one before. Red Ned has hired an army of mercenaries.” Amyas paused for my reaction, remembered he couldn’t trust me not to interrupt with something he considered beside the point, and continued. “Word is that he used sorcery to raise the old king from the dead to lead his army. They will ride on the city and demand our surrender.”
“What old king is that? The one snoozing upstairs?” This was not a respectful way to refer to King Corin, who had been near his dotage as long as I could remember, but I was only talking to Amyas.
“You know very well what old king—Julian the Fourth—your precious Julian the Good. He’s come home. Water is turning to wine, loaves to fishes, ewes are bearing twin lambs—the signs are unmistakable.”
“Milk,” I said. “The water turns to milk.”
Amyas paid no attention. “The prince-bishop doesn’t like it. He’s mustering the royal army. Supplying them will take a long time. And meanwhile, every day more of the countryside turns to Red Ned’s banner—well, that is, to the old king’s banner. No one thinks much of Red Ned. They march for King Julian.”
“Poor Julian.” I found my shoes and put them on. The river hadn’t done them any good. “Any news of Istvan?”
“Nothing. No one knows how long until Red Ned attacks the city. Everyone fears a siege. Bread costs more by the hour.”
“Have we heard anything from Neven?”
“Last word we had was Mother’s reply to the letter Father sent after you ran away, saying that you hadn’t turned up yet. They’re all right.”
“Have you been to Madame Carriera’s?”
“They’re all right too.”
“I don’t know when I’m going to get out of here, so will you do me a favor? Will you go round to Giltspur Street and ask Saskia to come see me? If she can’t, ask her if she’s ever heard of a treatise Maspero wrote about crafting the siege medal. It’s about alchemy. Ask Madame Carriera, if you can.”
“Why? What does it matter what your old Maspero did with his siege medal when we may be under siege ourselves?”
“I need to know about a book Maspero wrote. I’ve never heard of it, but Saskia or Madame Carriera may know it. Amyas, please. Promise me you’ll help.”
Amyas sighed. “I promise.”
“Thank you.” I kissed his cheek. “You’re a good brother. Thank you for the clean clothes. Go away now, so I can put them on.”
“Don’t forget to wash.”
“I won’t.” I couldn’t be impatient with him. I needed his help. “You’ll go to Giltspur Street now?”
“Yes, all right. I’m going.”
My next visitor was Ludovic Nallaneen. I’d wanted to see him, and I didn’t know who best to send for him, so this pleased me. By the time he arrived I had made good use of the soap and cold water and felt ready to receive visitors. Ludovic, though clean enough, did not look as well as I felt. There were smudges of weariness beneath his eyes, and he was in need of a shave.
“Good morning, Ludo. How are you?”
“Fine. You look better.”
I sat on the cot and patted the blanket beside me. “Come sit down. You look as if you could use the rest.”
Judging from his expression, it seemed as if Ludovic thought so too. “Not now. There isn’t time. The prince-bishop wishes to see you.”
“Again?”
“You’re in your right senses now. He wants to speak with you.”
“Oh. Is that all? Why did he send you?”
Ludovic gathered his patience in such a visible way that I knew he must be exhausted. Only under great strain did he ever betray the effort it cost him to be serene at all times. “He had plenty of people he could have sent. I happened to be given the task because I asked for it. I didn’t want some innocent ordered into the lioness’s lair.”
I looked around me. “Is this my lair? I thought it was my cell.”
“You’ve never been imprisoned if you think this is a cell.”
“Not a jail cell. A nun’s cell. I am shut away from the world, aren’t I?”
“Unfortunately, no. Come along.”
I rose and shook out my skirts. “How do I look?”
“Like Antigone set to wrestle Creon, best two falls out of three.” All false admiration, I sighed. “Oh, you’re so well educated, Captain.”
“And you painters are so ignorant. If Maspero had painted any classical subjects, you’d be much better off.”
“Who won, Antigone or Creon?”
“In the short term, Creon did.”
“And in the long term?”
“Difficult to say.” Ludovic opened the door and swept me before him. “Probably Creon.”
“That’s the trouble with the classics.”
“That’s the trouble with life. Don’t blame the Greeks and Romans. It’s not their fault life is unfair.”
Ludovic kept me talking until we reached the prince-bishop’s presence chamber. My memories of the place silenced me as Ludovic escorted me through the door and fell back to stand at attention a few paces behind me.
The prince-bishop was seated in a chair, reading something. He glanced up as I stood before him. Then he went back to his reading without acknowledging me.
I kept my shoulders back and tried not to think of the way the chess squares of the floor had dipped under me last time. It was a rainy day, and the light coming through the windows was pearly and soft. Incense was burning somewhere nearby, half cedar and half cypress.
The prince-bishop looked up. “Rigo has studied everyone who was there the night that Dalet stole away your traveling companion. Of the whole company, only you were strongly affected. Rigo’s theory is that whatever spell Dalet cast on the horses contaminated you while you held Istvan’s horse. Rigo tells me that some enchantments leave traces that linger after the spell is broken. He used an example from the arts, perhaps you are familiar with the idea? When an artist alters a work, on occasion the earlier brush strokes show through. One may guess at the artist’s original intent from such traces.”
“Such traces are called pentimenti. They can cause a lot of trouble. But if you use the right pigments—”
“Yes, pentimento, that’s the term. Rigo thinks he may be able to learn more of Dalet’s intentions by studying the traces of her spell. You are to help him in his studies.” The prince-bishop went back to his reading.
“How, Your Grace? If you please, how am Ito help him?”
“Rigo is to study you.” The prince-bishop looked past me to Ludovic. “Show her to his workshop, Captain.”
Ludovic’s hand was gentle on my shoulder. I shrugged it away. “Your Grace, I am very grateful to you for allowing Rigo to break the spell for me. But we have more to study than that. If Dalet stole the king’s siege medal and used it to work her enchantment, shouldn’t we learn all we can about the methods Maspero used to craft the medal? He wrote a treatise about it. A whole treatise I never even heard of before…”
The prince-bishop was staring at Ludovic in a meaningful way. Ludovic’s grasp on my elbow was unyielding. I let him pull me toward the door, but I kept on talking, trying to explain the siege medal, the alchemical theory, the blood.
When the door was shut behind us, Ludovic allowed himself the luxury of shaking me. He did it gently enough, and I was nearly out of breath anyway, so I fell silent.
“Will you for once leave Maspero out of things?”
“But I can’t. He’s right in the middle of it.”
“Just spare me. Spare my ears the sound of his name. Humor me. I’ll take you to Rigo, and you can explain it all to him.”
“Yes, of course,” I said. “I was going to anyway.”
I had imagined that a man of Rigo’s standing would have had a room worthy of him. In this assumption, I was mistaken. Rigo’s private chamber was small, too small for the task with which the prince-bishop had entrusted him. It was near the kitchens too, a feature that might be a
benefit at times. In this instance, however, Rigo had moved the scene of his research somewhere quieter, somewhere more spacious, somewhere far from the heart of the palace.
With Tig at my heels, I followed Rigo and Ludovic down passage after passage, down stair after flight of stair, into the depths of the palace and beyond. I had thought, on my departure from the palace with Istvan, that I had been shown the secret heart of the place. I was misled. Rigo had begun his work in one of the palace cisterns.
“This is mud.” I slipped and caught myself. “Isn’t it?” Whatever it was, I didn’t want to have any more to do with it than absolutely necessary.
“Simple mud. It settles out of the rainwater when the cisterns fill and are left undisturbed.” Ludovic offered me his arm. I accepted it gratefully.
“We’re in the highest level. Despite the unseasonable amount of rain we’ve had, we’re perfectly safe here.” He stopped and held his lantern higher. “Here we are.”
I looked around. The chamber was vast, made entirely of stone, from the floor, thinly carpeted with mud, to the vaulted ceiling thirty feet overhead. It contained several long tables, pushed end to end, and thirty wrought-iron torch holders, clustered in a ring like a thicket of spindly trees. Rigo didn’t bother to light any of the torches, just held his lantern over his head so that the shadows jumped and danced. “It’s cold,” I said.
Rigo smiled. “It only seems cold in comparison with the summer’s heat. Here we are in the very heart of the earth. Heat and cold mean nothing here.”
They meant something to me. “A brazier of coals would improve things a bit. It hasn’t been much of a summer for heat.”
‘e are free of distractions here. The world is at a remove. This can only aid my work.”
[Galazon 00] When the King Comes Home Page 15
