by Sarah Ash
“Lieutenant.” Philippe Viaud appeared in his cabin. “We're approaching Arkhelskoye.” Jagu laid down his pen. “And we've spotted two Rossiyan frigates. Looks like they're maneuvering to cut off our escape.”
Jagu rose. The report would have to wait. “We need backup. Time to fire the flare. Tell the men to take up battle stations until our men-o'-war show themselves.”
He and Ruaud had anticipated meeting resistance from the Rossiyans. Three Francian men-o'-war had been waiting off Arkhelskoye to cover their getaway. The arranged signal for them to show themselves was the firing of a flare.
Before he had even reached the deck, he heard the rushing whistle of an incoming broadside and a cannonball smacked into the waves yards off their bows. The cutter rocked; he was thrown backward, grabbing at the ladder rail to stop himself from falling.
“Fire the flare!” he heard Viaud yell at the top of his lungs as he emerged.
“Where are our ships?” Celestine cried out from the rail of the upper deck.
Jagu's heart missed a beat. She was in danger from any flying splinters of timber sheared off by the Rossiyan cannonballs. And if they dared to fire alchymical missiles at them, she could be overwhelmed by poisonous vapors in a matter of seconds, her lungs seared beyond repair.
“Get below, Celestine,” he shouted above the whiz of the flare as it spun upward into the cloudy sky. His voice grated, rough with fear for her safety. Guardian spirit or no, she was not invulnerable.
Another shot whizzed across their bows, closer this time, the ball hitting the water with such force that they were flung to the deck as the sea splashed up over the side.
“Let me help, Jagu.”
The flare burst into emerald light above their heads, staining her white face green with lurid light as he pulled her to her feet. He felt the pulse of aethyrial energy in her as he touched her and snatched his hands away as if he had been burned. Her guardian spirit must have been awoken by the commotion.
“No, Celestine!” A show of aethyrial power might save them from the frigates, but when help was so close at hand, it was far too dangerous to risk in front of so many witnesses.
“I'm not going to let anyone take the crook from us.” When she turned to him, he had to look away from the brilliance of her eyes that blazed, no longer blue but dazzlingly pale, like milky crystal.
It wasn't Celestine speaking anymore. He had to bring her back. Jagu acted on instinct, pushing her back against the bulkhead. As the distant boom of answering cannons rang out, he pressed his mouth to hers.
“Mm—Jagu!” She hit him, hard. “Have you gone mad?”
Still he held her, in spite of her struggles, gazing into her eyes. But the unnatural brilliance had gone; the shock must have jolted her back to herself. He relaxed his grip.
“They've got the Rossiyans on the run!” shouted a sailor from the rigging overhead. Rowdy cheers arose from the crew on all sides.
Jagu let go of Celestine. He was shaking. The immediate danger was past. But how could he trust her? She had let the spirit take control of her.
“Go below,” he said, “and stay in your cabin until we're out of their line of fire.”
She stared at him, mouth open as if to answer him back. And then as another Francian broadside thundered out across the waves, she turned and did as she was told without another word.
Dazed, confused, Celestine stood, her back pressed against her cabin door. The timbers of the ship reverberated to the deafening explosion of the cannonfire, shuddering through her body. The air stank of gunpowder fumes. She closed her eyes, trying to regain control of herself. She was trembling, but not from fear.
Jagu had kissed her, so forcefully that her mouth still felt bruised.
How dare he!
But if this was anger she was feeling, self-righteous fury at the way he had treated her in view of the crew, why was her body still trembling? Had he merely acted to stop her unleashing the Faie's powers? Or had she tasted something else, something fierce, passionate, hungry in that hard, lingering kiss?
And—most infuriating of all—why had her body responded so readily? Could she have fallen in love with Jagu?
CHAPTER 16
“So this is Smarna.” Jagu gazed up at the ruined walls of the old citadel of Colchise, brutally bombarded by the Tielen fleet before the Drakhaoul's dramatic intervention had brought the siege to an abrupt end. The sun was burning down from a cloudless sky and he took off his broad-brimmed hat to fan his face. Flags stirred a little on the battlements in the dry heat; Francian pennants of blue and gold. He glanced tentatively at Celestine and saw her pointedly look the other way, unwilling to meet his eyes.
Since he had kissed her, she had hardly spoken a word to him. During the long voyage to Colchise, she had kept to her cabin for much of the time, under the pretext that she was writing a report on the mission. Several times he had been on the point of apologizing— but then his pride had stopped him. Damn it all, if he hadn't taken such a drastic step, she would have betrayed her secret—and everything would have been over. She should have, by all rights, been grateful. But all he had done was to drive her further away. And what was worst of all was that in acting so spontaneously, he had revealed not just to her—but to himself—a strength of feeling that he had been unable to control. So, in spite of the brilliant sunlight, he felt as if he walked under a cloud because he feared that his one impetuous act had changed things between them forever.
“So now Smarna belongs to Francia.” Celestine was watching the Francian man-o'-war set sail for Lutèce with the Azhkendi prisoners securely chained in the hold. “But why do you suppose the Maistre asked us to meet him here?”
“Perhaps he has a new mission for us.” She had spoken quite naturally to him and he wondered if she had forgiven him at last.
As they followed their armed escorts, Guerriers, from the harbor, Jagu could not help noticing that, whenever they passed Smarnans in the dusty streets, all turned away, as though silently refusing to acknowledge their new masters. Could these be the same citizens who had, by all accounts, welcomed King Enguerrand so warmly only a few weeks ago?
“Something's not right here,” he said quietly to Celestine.
She nodded. “I don't think I've ever sensed such hostility. What can have happened?”
The Guerriers led them to a tree-lined square and into a balconied mansion built of golden stone. It had once been the Colchise residence of the princes of Smarna, hastily abandoned in the uprising when the deposed royal family fled into exile. Inside, the lofty hall was refreshingly cool; Jagu could glimpse a green courtyard garden beyond and hear the splash of a fountain. But the antechamber in which they were left to await the Maistre's summons had a sad air of faded grandeur: The gilding on the ornate cornices had all but flaked away and cracks marred the painted plaster.
“You've done well; very well.” Ruaud de Lanvaux held up Saint Sergius's golden crook, touching it reverently.
Considering that the mission to Azhkendir had so nearly come to grief, Jagu was relieved to see that the Maistre was pleased with the results.
“We've never had greater need of the saint's protection.” Ruaud's expression darkened. “While you were in Azhkendir, the Magus escaped.”
“The Magus escaped?” Celestine echoed.
“We were attacked by one of the Drakhaouls. It swooped down into the Place du Trahoir and snatched the Magus from the burning pyre.”
This was a setback that Jagu had not anticipated. He glanced at Celestine to see how she was taking the news.
“What would a Drakhaoul want with the Magus?” she burst out. “Does this mean that Eugene has summoned a daemon of his own? You remember, Jagu? Linnaius was researching the Drakhaouls in Azhkendir.”
“Our duty as Guerriers has not altered.” The Grand Maistre carefully placed the relic in a cedarwood box and locked the box with a gilded key from a chain around his neck. “We must keep to our plan to destroy the Drakhaouls. And now, tha
nks to you, we have the means to do it.” He laid one hand protectively over the cedarwood box. “While our craftsmen are at work reforging the Staff, we will be laying our trap for them.”
Jagu nodded. If Celestine was right and Eugene was the one responsible for setting the Drakhaouls free, the sooner the Commanderie was armed against them, the better. “So, Maistre, what is our next mission?” he asked.
Ruaud gestured to them to sit down opposite him. “The situation in Smarna,” he said, “is a little… delicate. While you were in Azhkendir, Eugene agreed to cede Smarna to us in exchange for the safe return of the Empress. But even though the king was warmly welcomed here, matters have rapidly deteriorated since he left. Quite frankly, I find it dispiriting that the Smarnans have shown us so little gratitude, considering that we freed them from a brutal Tielen regime. But they've always been a volatile nation, so perhaps we should have anticipated some resistance…”
The lazy drone of cicadas in the trees outside carried into the room on the hot, dusty breeze.
“Resistance?” Jagu remembered the hostile looks they had encountered in the streets.
“I'm sailing for Francia on the evening tide”—Ruaud let out a small sigh which did not escape Jagu's notice— “but I'd like you both to stay here in Colchise to monitor the situation. The university is the center of the rebels’ activities. Some of the academics led the recent revolt against the Tielen occupation force. I fear that they're stirring the students to rise up against us this time. But this situation needs handling with the utmost caution.”
“Who's in command of the garrison?”
Ruaud hesitated. “Ah. There we also have a potential problem. Prosper Eguiner, a high-ranking Inquisitor.”
“The Inquisition here?” said Celestine, who had been silent a-while, as though her thoughts were elsewhere. “But why?”
“A professor, called Rafael Lukan. A dangerous freethinker whose writings on philosophy have attracted the Inquisition's notice. But we need to tread very carefully with him… it seems that he's an old friend of the Drakhaon of Azhkendir. One wrong move and the whole of Colchise could erupt.”
“The Drakhaon,” Celestine repeated under her breath.
“Haute Inquisitor Visant took the Magus's escape very badly. He saw it as a slight on the Inquisition's reputation. He's determined to demonstrate the power of the Inquisition by publicly crushing a prominent heretic. So be careful—and keep me informed of any unusual developments. Jagu, I've told Eguiner that you will assist him in the garrison, should the need arise.”
“But what about me, Maistre?” asked Celestine.
Ruaud passed her a printed bill and Jagu read over her shoulder:
REPUTED PORTRAIT PAINTER SEEKS NEW COMMISSIONS.
Illustrious recent clients: her imperial highness, Astasia,
Empress of Rossiya; the Grand Duchess Sofiya; his Excellency,
Ambassador Garsevani. Please address all inquiries to Elysia
Andar at the Villa Andara, Vermeille.
“You want me to have my portrait painted?”
“We have already made arrangements for you to give a concert at the ambassador's residence. A little villa has been reserved for you overlooking Vermeille Bay. Your nearest neighbor will be Madame Andar and you will commission her to paint your portrait. That way you'll be able to use your conversational skills to learn a great deal about the situation here in Smarna. And, maybe the whereabouts of the Drakhaoul of Azhkendir.”
“How so?” Celestine said blankly.
“Elysia Andar is Gavril Nagarian's mother.”
“Maistre, isn't this a highly dangerous mission?” Jagu protested. “If you mean to bring Lord Nagarian to heel by holding his mother hostage—”
“I'm well aware of the dangers involved, Jagu,” Celestine said, flashing him a defiant look.
Jagu shook his head.
“I shall need a maid if I am to play my part convincingly. Staff to run the villa.” Celestine ticked off each item on her fingers. “A good quality fortepiano, not some out-of-tune, neglected instrument. And new gowns and jewelry, if I am to impress fashionable society here in Colchise—”
“All this has been anticipated. The treasurer is awaiting you downstairs.”
Jagu was about to follow Celestine out when de Lanvaux called quietly, “A moment more of your time, Lieutenant.”
Jagu paused, wondering what the Maistre wanted with him.
“You've proved your loyalty to the cause time and time again, Jagu. I think I can confide in you.” The Maistre put his hand on Jagu's shoulder. “I have great hopes for your future within the Commanderie. I see potential in you, and that is why I'm going to share my thoughts with you.” Jagu glanced questioningly into his leader's eyes. “I know you hold her in great regard. But you must be on your guard. Since the trial, Visant has been asking questions about her. I believe that he's set his Inquisitors to investigate her background.”
This was what Jagu had long been dreading. If word reached the Inquisitors’ ears about her behavior at the monastery…
“You know that I hold you both in the highest esteem. But I fear that she has begun to be driven more by her own desires than the greater good of the order.”
“But Maistre—”
“I have serious concerns about her, Jagu. I know you would come to me—in confidence, of course—if you suspected that she was no longer acting in our best interests. Do you understand?”
Jagu felt the pressure of the Grand Maistre's hand on his shoulder. Was he being forced to make a choice?
“I understand,” he said slowly, wondering even as he spoke the words aloud if he were already betraying her.
CHAPTER 17
Where was Jagu? Celestine paced the salon of her rented villa, stopping from time to time to gaze out of the window at the cliff road that wound up from the wide bay far below. The rehearsal was to have started at three in the afternoon and it was a quarter past five. Had he forgotten? That would be unlike Jagu, who was usually reliable to the point of obsession about timekeeping.
The afternoon was hot and the sheen of sunlight sparkling off the waves had been dulled by a drifting film of haze. And the constant nagging drone of the cicadas in the acacia trees had become a torment to her sensitive ears.
Since she had learned about Kaspar Linnaius's escape, she had been on edge, unable to settle to any task. They had been idle in Colchise for too long and she was restless. She had almost begun to believe that Ruaud had deliberately chosen to leave her in Smarna.
To protect me? Or to keep me from causing trouble for the Commanderie?
At last she heard horse's hooves on the cliff road. She hurried out into the courtyard, only to be assailed by the afternoon's heat, rich with the lemony perfume of the late roses in the garden.
A lone horseman rode into the courtyard; it was Jagu.
“Where have you been? You're over two hours late!”
He dismounted and, as the stable lad came out to take the reins of his horse, he gave her a warning look that said, “Not out here.”
So she was obliged to wait until her new maid, Nanette, had brought some iced tea. Jagu, taking a long sip, eventually said,
“Colchise is in an uproar.” She noticed that a little muscle at the side of his eye had begun to twitch from time to time. “Eguiner has had Rafael Lukan arrested on charges of heresy. And what's happened? All the students have gathered at the university to protest.”
“Why didn't Eguiner bide his time?”
“The Inquisition must be planning to make an example of him. Such tactics might work at home in Francia, but here, in Smarna?”
“I can't pretend I like this mission, Jagu. And I can't help wondering why the Maistre left us behind.” Celestine took a deep breath and asked the question that had been bothering her: “Doesn't he trust me anymore?”
“I'm sure that's not the case,” said Jagu, maybe a little too quickly. She did not feel in the least reassured. “Celestine,” he we
nt on, “I've been drafted in by Eguiner to help defend the citadel. I have to go back straightaway. The recital may have to be postponed.”
So there was nothing for her to do. She turned away from him, not wanting him to see how angry and frustrated she felt.
“How are the sittings going for the portrait?”
She gave a little shrug. “Madame Andara is an accomplished artist. She's also extremely discreet. I don't think she's going to confide any of her family secrets to me, Jagu. Quite frankly, I think it's a waste of my time—and the Commanderie's funds.”
“I'll be in touch again as soon as I have any new information.” He rose, setting down the empty glass. “Be careful, Celestine. Don't do anything rash.”
“As if I would!” she cried, stung that he should speak so patronizingly to her.
A puzzled, hurt look clouded his eyes. “I just meant—that if—oh, never mind.”
“One of your agents has been causing the council some concern, Maistre,” said Inquisitor Visant.
“One of my agents?” Ruaud looked up into the Inquisitor's eyes and saw that cold, keen light he recognized of old; when Visant set his mind to a problem, he pursued it with a single-minded dedication that came close to obsession.
“We've had our suspicions for some time.”
“I have no idea to whom you're referring.” But Ruaud knew all too well that Visant meant Celestine.
“One of my men was in the raiding party that went to Saint Sergius. Demoiselle de Joyeuse was twice observed to use some iridescent dust that caused those who inhaled it to fall instantly into a deep sleep.”
“Your man must have a strong imagination.” So there had been an Inquisition agent among Ruaud's Guerriers, spying and reporting back to Visant. A discomfiting thought. “A dust that causes instant sleep?”
“There was a recipe for just such a dust in the books that were burned on Kaspar Linnaius's pyre.”