“It’s all just symbols. The protection is meant to be many-layered, after all. Against plague, against drought, against curses, against misfortune. We thought about putting in layers against foreign invasions—the old wars are always on everyone’s mind. But mysteries are little match for a strong army. We learned that well enough. The intent here is to guard against more subtle things.”
Margerit took the papers from her and rolled them up to fit into a stout leather case. No risk of all that work being damaged before it got back to Rotenek.
“Too late for LeFevre to have his office back!” Barbara pointed out. He’d arrived two weeks before and made do with the corner into which his desk had been crammed. But now, having reviewed all accounts for the Chalanz house and having satisfied Maistir Fulpi of his stewardship, he was gone ahead of them back to the city.
“And now,” said Margerit as she set the case aside, “all that’s left of the summer is to hold a ball.”
* * *
Last year there had been the heady excitement for Margerit of taking up the reins of her own life and first stepping into society as a hostess rather than a pawn on the board. This year it felt more routine. A great deal of the planning was handed over to Maisetra Fulpi as a sweetener for having left her out of most of the summer’s entertainments. Details that had been skirmishes in the battle for independence last year could now be placed on the table as peace offerings. And for Barbara, the nerves that last year had been tensed to near breaking by the weight of her responsibilities were calmer with the ease of habit and—she dared to admit—the long months with no sign of any overt threat to her charge. In truth, Estefen seemed to have abandoned the gameboard.
Chapter Forty-Seven
Margerit
The Estrausiz Road that stretched east from Rotenek had a reputation in story for being haunted by bandits. Margerit had thought it just a staple of romantic novels. What she’d seen of it before had been a well-kept carriage road, dotted at intervals with villages sporting quaint, friendly innkeepers. It was frequented by enough traffic to make care necessary on blind turns but not enough to slow the journey significantly. Barbara’s caution in hiring extra outriders for the trip, equipped with pistols, had seemed overdone until she leaned in toward the open carriage window from her saddle to warn, “Be ready! We’re followed.” When Margerit craned her head out to see the clot of riders pacing them a quarter mile back, Barbara shouted at her to sit back and hold on.
She felt a change in the pace of the horses as the coachman gathered them in readiness for a sprint. Long moments passed. Shouting could be heard clearly over the sound of the hooves and she braced her ears for the sound of a shot. But in the end nothing came of it. When they stopped to rest the horses and take refreshment at the next inn, Barbara said only, “They decided we were more of a bite than they cared to chew.” And then, quietly, almost as an afterthought, “I see no reason to think Estefen could have been behind it.”
That hadn’t occurred to her. She’d stopped worrying long since whether the new Baron Saveze was still planning revenge—or something more practical.
They reached the city with no other excitement. Overlaid on her view of the familiar streets was the memory of her last arrival: the cathedral that had towered so imposingly, the glimpse of the gilded ornaments of the opera house, the imposing bulk of the palace, the row of deceptively simple facades along the Vezenaf. It had all been a wonder out of legend and now it was just home. Margerit smiled to herself at that thought. One year had made Rotenek home. Chalanz was where her childhood lived—that shy, dreaming, fettered girl. Transplanted to Rotenek she had finally found the chance to bloom. In another echo of her previous arrival, she’d come out onto the narrow balcony behind the library to look out over the tumbled riot of gardens falling down to the river’s edge. Behind her on the round table lay the roll of papers representing her summer’s work, carried carefully in hand throughout the return journey. Last year she had been surrounded by newly opened doors, wondering what lay behind them. This time was better because she knew exactly what they offered.
* * *
The mystery guild re-formed slowly as the traveling members returned from their summer haunts. If there had been any acceptable way to do so, Margerit would have gone calling on Hennis Lutoz to present the results of her work. But outside the license of the guildhall itself she had no social entrance to his life—no sister of his she might visit as an excuse. She could have used Nikule as go-between but he was one of the last to straggle in. There had been arguments between him and Uncle Fulpi, she knew. She hadn’t been privy to all the details but the field of their battle had been whether he would take another year at the university or stay in Chalanz and start in his father’s business. Nikule had never been serious as a scholar and he had fulfilled the requirements of a gentleman’s education. But the guild had changed him. He knew—they all knew—he’d only been included to give cover to her own invitation. But just maybe he’d decided to prove he brought some value of his own, for he’d insisted on another year in the city. And in the end he’d won on the argument to his father that the connections he made there would pay off in the end.
It wasn’t until lectures were already begun that Hennis sent word round to gather at the guildhall and renew their work. Margerit laid out the pages of her framework along one of the long refectory tables, echoing the office in Chalanz.
“It opens here,” she explained, “with the standard prayers. Then we define the limits of Alpennia with a markein invoking the local patrons in turn, beginning at Helviz and working around to Feniz, then it ends in Rotenek with Mauriz, finishing with our own patron Atelpirt to set the seal. Each point has its own small structure based on the traditional forms for that saint. That’s where the mistake is often made, I think. People want to bring the parts together under a single rite, whether it’s the Lyonnais today or the Roman in our grandparents’ time or whatever the fashion is. But these are local saints and I think they should be spoken to with their local tongues and habits.”
Hennis interrupted, “Which is why the rest of you have been working separately to fill in those spaces.”
As Margerit moved down the table to gesture at the next section, the others followed her in a cloud. She thought momentarily of how students would cluster around the dozzures as they moved between lectures. Did it feel like this? “So that part is raising the walls. Then we move on to touch on the different protections we request. For each one we raise a tower. Each saint is called on to lay a course of stones and here there’s a unifying structure to the repetitions but each petition still keeps elements native to the patron. And then here,” she moved down to the last section, “the threads are woven together to tie it up as a whole. That’s not quite the right image. Perhaps more like setting up a network of signals and messengers between the towers so that any harm is answered by the whole. I know what the fluctus will look like here, but it doesn’t fit so well with the image of walls and towers.”
She looked up to see whether the others had followed her explanation. Iakup was peering at her over the edge of his spectacles and the Saluns were staring in something bordering on astonishment. The rest were bent over the papers to study them in more detail. “Do…do you think it will work for our purpose?” she asked in sudden uncertainty.
Akezze barked out a laugh. “Will it work? Even if it doesn’t you’ve created a wonder here. Is this really the first mystery you’ve crafted?”
“Not exactly. The first was—” No, the lorica was a private matter. If she hadn’t told Barbara about it, it wasn’t right to tell them. “The first was much smaller.” And it pained her not to give Barbara the credit she deserved for her own contributions. Small wonder she’d once again assigned Marken to oversee guild days. Margerit knew she wouldn’t have been able to stand by silently if she were in Barbara’s place.
* * *
The return of the Rotenek season hit like a river flood. Last year there had been the long slow
accumulation of contacts and introductions. Now suddenly she found herself committed in a single week to two musical salons, one formal ball and playing nominal hostess to an opera party of Aunt Bertrut’s friends, as well as the usual rounds of visiting that her aunt insisted on. At that she put her foot down.
“Aunt Bertrut, this is too much. I need at least three days in a row with no going out. I have work to do.”
Her aunt indulged a rare moment of impatience. “And ‘no going out’ doesn’t include running off to your lectures or chanting mysteries with your bookish friends. No, Margerit, I’m not blind and I know you don’t care much about making a good match. But I had to give a promise to your Uncle Fulpi that I would try to turn your mind more to serious matters.”
There had been arguments between them, she knew. Bertrut was keeping a fine balance between her roles of guardian and dependent and she had grown sharp and nervous over it. Margerit knew her face showed her own growing annoyance because Bertrut continued quickly, “And if he isn’t happy with my reports, he’s said he’ll fetch you back to Chalanz. It wouldn’t be pleasant for any of us, but he has that legal right.”
“Only until February,” Margerit interrupted.
Bertrut fell silent for a moment. Margerit realized she’d never quite so plainly indicated her intention to go her own way the first moment she could.
“Margerit, if you want to spend the next six months locked in a bedroom in Chalanz, all for the pleasure of telling the entire world to go to the devil a bit sooner, then I don’t know you at all.” She had clearly been building up to this talk for some time. “It’s not for me to judge why your godfather thought it wise to put that power in your hands so young, but how long do you think you’ll be happy to sit here alone with your books and writings when the world takes you at your word and goes to the devil? When no one of any sense or standing will greet you in the street because you’ve trampled every convention they hold dear? When even your family refuses to receive you because you destroyed the hopes they have for you?”
Margerit blurted out, “You mean the hopes you have for yourself that depend on me! Where would you and Mesner Pertinek be if I were locked up in Uncle Fulpi’s attic and didn’t need you to keep house for me?”
That went too far. Much too far. Bertrut began crying. Margerit felt her anger melt away.
“Aunt! Aunt, I didn’t mean it! I’m so sorry.” She took her aunt’s hands as she crumpled into the nearest chair, then knelt at her feet. “It’s just all too much. I’m tired. But the studying and the guild…that’s what I live for. It’s important. Not just to me. What we’re doing, it will be important for everyone, you’ll see. But I can’t do that and be out dancing every night as well! Aunt, have you ever wanted something so badly that it would have been worth telling everyone to go to the devil to get it?”
She reached up to touch her aunt’s face, to wipe away the tears, to erase all the poisonous words.
Bertrut turned to her with a faraway look and just the hint of a smile in the corner of her mouth. “Yes, dear, I have. But it wouldn’t have been worth it.” She pulled out a handkerchief and dabbed at her eyes. “I know you’re tired. But you can’t shut yourself away from society. And if I left the choice to you, that’s what you’d do and not count the cost until too late. I’ll tell Mesnera Arulik you aren’t feeling well and we’ll stay home tonight. But you need to meet me halfway.” She stood up and smoothed her skirts out then added in a brisker tone, “And if it helps, think about how your guild would manage without you if you were locked in that attic for the next six months.”
Chapter Forty-Eight
Barbara
To those who listened, there was a frantic edge to the voice of the city. Prince Aukust was ill. No, he wasn’t ill; he had left the city for a religious retreat. No, he was in the city but would see no one. His visitors were being refused by Princess Elisebet and he didn’t know it. No, he had been seen at the opera the night before, laughing and in good health.
Barbara declined to believe or disbelieve any of the rumors. The one story she did believe was that he had sent ambassadors to Austria over the summer to request the presence of his daughter and his grandsons at a council on the succession of Alpennia. It would take months to arrange their travel—if it could be done at all before winter closed the most convenient passes. That left a long time for rumors to sprout and bloom and die.
The unrest touched Margerit not at all. For that, Barbara was grateful. The levels at which the merits of the prospective heirs were debated lay far above her head and no one expected her to have a favorite, much less to support a faction. And there were factions in plenty: the Chustines, Aukustin’s party—or rather, Elisebet’s; the Charteires who held by the prince’s contract to his first wife; two or three Atilliet cousins who ventured to offer themselves as alternatives. And for each supporter who took a principled stand, there were two who looked to their own profit, whether in influence or gold. Only the strict rules of polite behavior kept parlors and ballrooms from fracturing into open hostility. The streets were another matter. Every week saw swords drawn in the plaiz at least once over some point of honor spilling over from the debates. With luck, the opening of the council and its truce would come before there was a death.
And the season must go on, whatever the undercurrents. Barbara moved farther along the upper balcony of the salle to keep an eye on Margerit as she found a seat for the concert. The floor was too crowded to allow for armins as well as guests. It made the watch more nerve-wracking, though in truth it would take a bare half-second more to fly down the stairs in case of need than it would to push through a crowded dance floor. A few of the guests found the vantage of the upper level preferable as well so she took note of the approaching woman only when a familiar voice greeted her.
“I haven’t seen you for entirely too long. One might think you were avoiding me, ma chere Barbre.”
“Vicomtesse,” she responded, nodding without taking her eyes off Margerit. The last thing she wanted at the moment was the distraction of Jeanne de Cherdillac’s attentions.
“And how are things progressing with your little bourgeoise?” Jeanne raised a hand to stroke her cheek. Barbara fought the reflex to lean into it.
“Mesnera, with all respect, that is none of your affair.”
Jeanne leaned closer. “Once, it would have been my affair. Ah, forgive me, you’re serious.”
Barbara risked a glance at her. “Your pardon, Vicomtesse, but with things as they are,” she gestured to take in the entire city and its restless mood, “I’d prefer not to be distracted from my duty.”
“Ah yes, the succession is poisoning everything at the moment. I even had young Lutoz pestering me to support Elisebet’s boy. As if the fact that she was born Isabelle de Villemont and so part French should be enough for me. He forgets who I was born.”
“Do you have a vote on the council, then? I thought—”
“Oh la no! I’ve been invited to witness the debates but de Cherdillac had no Alpennian lands to give me a vote.”
The other matter was even more surprising. “Is Lutoz for the Chustines party? I had thought he would follow his father’s lead.”
The vicomtesse shrugged. “She’s been courting the young men for years now. I don’t know if she expected to have more time—few enough of them have inherited to the titles yet.”
Now that was unexpected, Barbara thought as the vicomtesse drifted away once more. She reviewed the list of guild members in her mind. The Saluns she knew leaned toward Elisebet’s party. And Filip Amituz followed his father in the same direction. And Iosifin Rezik as well. Antuniet—she was hard to read. Her brother was solidly at the princess’s side but how close were they? And their mother was outspoken in support of whoever Aukust’s choice would be. Antuniet might go either way or have her own opinions.
The ordinary scholars, male and female, were harder to assess, but her curiosity was up. They would have no direct interest in the deliberations
but there were endless webs of ties and obligations. Where did their families live? In whose district? Were they supported in their schooling by a patron’s bequests? What were their prospects for advancement? Who stood at the gates to their chosen careers? Again, what of their families? Was a father or cousin in the employ of a partisan to one side or the other? How could that not be the case?
The place to start was the university registers. With the same zeal she had brought to searching for her own origins, Barbara followed each thread in the web. The hunt was more difficult than it might have been in the palace district. She had few existing contacts and the excuse of scouting out Margerit’s safety held little weight with the university clerks. But slowly a pattern emerged. A few of the ordinary scholars had no known ties to any faction. They were, on the whole, among the more skilled. The women from the poor-scholars fell entirely in this group. That made sense in the emerging picture. They had no immediate obligations beyond the Scholars House itself; by definition they were residents of Rotenek. And it had been clear from the beginning that they had been invited to the guild for the reputation of their work as much as to keep the balance of men and women.
But the bulk of the guild membership—both high and low—were either partisans of Elisebet or in their patronage. Could it still be chance? Or, more likely, a simple consequence of that web of connections? But then, why Margerit? Yes, she was invaluable to their work but they couldn’t have known that at the time. If she were looking for a conspiracy, it was as if they had designed the guild as a lure to draw Margerit in: a mixed guild to satisfy proprieties, a few personal connections to disarm suspicion, the promise of serious study of the mysteries as bait. Once the idea had seized her, it was hard to shake loose.
She ventured the topic with Margerit one evening over books. “At the guild meetings, is there much talk of politics?”
Daughter of Mystery Page 30
