by Sarah Ash
“Frankly, I'm surprised to hear you talk that way, Lieutenant,” Eguiner said, tucking away the handkerchief. “The man's a dangerous influence! We have to make an example of him.”
Jagu suppressed a sigh of irritation. He had no great sympathy for the Inquisition. Their officers had never seen action in Enhirre, spending their time ferreting out evidence against unbelievers and heretics. Faced with an armed revolt, he feared that they might not have enough experience to be able to defend the citadel successfully.
“What are my orders?”
“I want you to organize the Guerriers to defend the citadel against any possible attack from the populace. The execution is to take place at midday tomorrow. I don't want anything to go wrong, do you understand me?”
“I understand. Do you have a map of the citadel?” Jagu asked. “And how many men are stationed here?”
“A detachment of fifty.”
Not that many, but maybe enough, if I position them at key places along the walls…
As the shouting of the students settled into a regular pattern, Jagu began to distinguish words. “Free Lukan! Free Lukan!”
“Inquisitor, the First Minister of Smarna is here to see you,” announced Eguiner's secretary.
“Tell her I'm busy.”
“She's most insistent…”
Eguiner slammed the dossier shut and followed his secretary out of the room. Jagu examined the map of the citadel spread out on the desk in front of him, taking note of all the breaches in the walls left unrepaired since the last revolt against the Tielens, only a few months ago.
My mission was to work with Celestine to discover more about the Drakhaon's whereabouts. It involved infiltrating Smarnan society, playing music, and listening to the gossip of the intellectuals and the artists… And now, thanks to the Inquisition, the whole country's in an uproar, and I have to leave Celestine to work on her own.
The rhythm of the chanting changed. Now Jagu was certain that he could hear, “Death to the Francian Inquisition!”
I should go back to check that Celestine is safe. Instead of which, I'm going to have to drill these Inquisition Guerriers on how to defend themselves.
An hour or so later, Jagu found himself instructing Eguiner's officers, pointing out the places on the map where the citadel was most vulnerable to attack. Then the shouting outside suddenly died away. All the Guerriers looked up.
“The calm before the storm?” said one, laughing nervously.
“Perhaps they've given up?” suggested another.
“I doubt it,” said Jagu dryly. Though, the more he thought about the Inquisition's methods, the more he disliked what he had been ordered to do. Heretical as Rafael Lukan's ideas might be, execution seemed too harsh a punishment. A rumor was circulating in the citadel that the First Minister was appealing directly to King Enguerrand to intervene.
Eguiner's men had been up all night building a scaffold in the square outside the citadel. Jagu had placed armed Guerriers around the square, warning them to be ready to fire at the first sign of trouble.
Eleven was striking from the cathedral clock as he returned to the citadel. One hour to go to the execution, and the rebel students had still not made their move.
A woman screamed. Jagu seized his pistol and checked that it was primed.
“To your positions!” he ordered the Guerriers waiting inside. As he ran to guard the doorway, he heard the sound of musket shots. “So soon?” he muttered. In the square, people were running about in confusion. The sky darkened and, glancing up, he saw daemon-blue eyes staring down at him from the smoky glitter of a great hook-winged shadow-dragon. His Guerriers fired at it but their musket balls bounced off its armored scales like hailstones.
“The Drakhaon,” he muttered. “I should have guessed…”
Two people were coming swiftly toward him; a fair-haired young man and a bespectacled youth clutching a document case. Jagu, sensing trouble, barred their way.
“Take us to Rafael Lukan,” said the man. “I have a pass signed by the First Minister.”
“No one is allowed in to see the condemned man.”
“But I'm his son,” piped up the youth.
Could this be the truth? “I have no record of any wife or son here. Wait here, please.” Jagu was forced to scan the record book.
“His illegitimate son,” added the youth.
There came a sudden uproar as hundreds of students poured into the square and rushed the Guerriers. And the Guerriers, caught reloading their muskets, were not ready for them.
“Damn!” Jagu cried and in that one moment's distraction, turned away. The blow caught him on the back of the head; there was a flash of blinding, skull-splitting pain—and then, nothing.
“Lieutenant. Lieutenant!”
Jagu opened his eyes to see a Guerrier bending over him. He felt sick. And when he tried to sit up, he felt a violent pounding in his head.
“The prisoner—”
“He got away.”
“Damn.” Jagu closed his eyes. Fragments of memory began to return. “That youth. The old distraction trick. Keep the target occupied while your accomplice slips round the back and—bang! Why did I fall for it?” He groaned. “How long have I been unconscious?”
“You've been out most of the day. The surgeon says—”
“Not so loud,” Jagu hissed, closing his eyes again. The sound of the man's voice had set lights dancing luridly before his eyes.
“Sorry, Lieutenant.” The Guerrier spoke more softly.
“The recital!” Jagu suddenly remembered. “I have to go to the ambassador's villa—”
“The surgeon says you're to rest until he's checked you again. You took quite a blow there.”
Jagu felt so queasy that he did not argue and lay back, letting the Guerrier apply a cold compress.
“‘In the light of recent unfortunate events in the citadel,’” read Celestine,
I feel it is inadvisable to proceed with your recital. I hope you will understand, Demoiselle. It is with regret that I have decided to postpone the concert until the situation has stabilized.
Yakov Garsevani, Ambassador
“Unfortunate events?” she said aloud, unable to conceal her annoyance. “Why didn't the Inquisition take Rafael Lukan to stand trial in Francia? Then they could have lured the Drakhaon there and entrapped him, using the information I charmed from his mother, far from his home. But no, the Inquisition knows best, and all my hard work is for nothing!”
Nanette appeared. “There are two Guerriers here to see you, Demoiselle,” she said as two men appeared in the doorway behind her.
“We have urgent instructions from Maistre de Lanvaux,” said the taller of the two.
“From the Maistre?” she asked, stalling for time; neither man's face was familiar.
“You are to return to Lutèce with us straightaway.” Both wore the discreet emerald insignia on their black uniform jackets that marked them as belonging to the inquisitorial division. Visant's men.
“But I need time to pack—”
“We have orders to take charge of all your luggage.”
“Let me at least send word to Lieutenant de Rustéphan.”
“We must leave straightaway,” repeated the first officer. There was an inflexible tone to his voice that warned her that she had been found out. But who had betrayed her?
“It was an old book…” Nanette's voice drifted out from her bedchamber as they led Celestine across the hall, “… and then the portraitist said she felt unwell…”
They were going through her possessions. If she called on the Faie to help her, she would only give her secret away. She would have to bide her time.
As they escorted her into their carriage, she saw other Guerriers entering the villa. She had concealed the grimoire inside a collection of chansons, but the Inquisitors were trained to ferret out all manner of hidden secrets.
It was stickily hot inside the carriage. Why were they waiting? And then she had a sudden h
orrible suspicion. Had Jagu reported her to their Commanderie superiors? He had warned her not to use the grimoire and she had ignored him. For where was he now? Had he betrayed her? Was his loyalty to the cause stronger than his feelings for her, after all?
I've risked my life many times for the Commanderie. Surely that will stand me in good stead if it comes to a trial?
A Guerrier came running over. He handed over a package to the officers.
“Demoiselle de Joyeuse,” said one, “can you explain why this was found in the villa?”
The other held up her father's grimoire.
“I have no idea,” she said.
CHAPTER 20
As the Aquilón sailed out of Colchise harbor, Andrei Orlov found himself pacing the upper deck with his mind on matters other than navigating the strong currents in the bay. The sun was setting and the western sky bled crimson light into the sea, hazed by ragged tatters of gauzy cloud.
What was the matter with Celestine? She had not even looked at him when she came on board. Her manner had been subdued, her eyes downcast. The two officers acting as her escort had not once left her side. And there was no sign of Jagu de Rustéphan. The more Andrei puzzled over it, the more he became convinced that something was amiss.
He resolved to speak to her alone as soon as he could distract the two officers. He would get Vassian to make them both read and sign a long document of his own devising, “a new precaution, in these troubled times.” And while they were busy with pen and ink, he would seek out Celestine.
Celestine had not encountered Andrei Orlov since they parted in Haeven, and the sight of him, so trim and handsome in his dark blue uniform, had made her heart race. Yet she had not dared greet him in front of her captors; they must not suspect that she had friends on board. She was surprised to find him already in command of a Francian warship. Where did his true loyalties lie? If she appealed to him, would he be willing to help—or would he refuse, constrained by his allegiance to his new allies? She knew that he was very ambitious.
He might not want to involve himself in anything as sordid as a sorcery trial that might spoil his chances of advancement.
Celestine tried the door of her tiny cabin. It was locked. And from the lively motion of the ship, she guessed that they would soon be out in open sea, heading back to Francia. She lay down on the bunk and tried to order her thoughts.
How could I have been so stupid as to try to hide the grimoire? At the time, she had been so certain that they would search her that concealing it in her music had seemed the best idea. But then I was naïve enough to imagine that I could charm my way out of their trap.
Why had she not listened to Jagu? Was it just her own stubbornness that had made her act so rashly? He had warned her and she had ignored his advice.
Why did he always have to be so infuriatingly self-righteous?
Waves slapped against the hull as the Aquilon plowed on through the dusk. High overhead she heard the thudding footfall and shouts of the sailors as they went about their work. Unpleasant odors arose from the bilges, seeping through the boards as the ship sailed into deeper waters.
There's no point feeling sorry for myself. I have to act swiftly or I'm as good as dead. The temptation to summon the Faie to help her escape was growing stronger with every minute that passed, but such an act would only give the Inquisitors the evidence they needed to bring her to trial.
The sound of a key turning in the lock of the cabin door made her glance up fearfully. But when she saw that it was Andrei Orlov, she could not hold back tears of relief.
“Andrei, I fear I may be in terrible danger.” She tried to control her voice but the tears kept flowing. “Those two officers—”
“Don't worry; Vassian's keeping them busy with a stack of official forms that I've insisted they read and sign. In triplicate.” Andrei was checking that the door was bolted behind him.
“But they're working for Inquisitor Visant. He hates me. He would do anything to destroy me.”
“Tell me what I can do.”
“Help me escape.” She wiped her eyes.
“But where will you be safe? You can't go back to Smarna. And Francia is utterly out of the question.”
Celestine shook her head. “I—I can't even go to Allegonde.” Jagu had been right, of course; she had become overconfident and risked too much, without thinking through the consequences. And at that moment, she hated Jagu for having been so accurate in his reading of her.
“Muscobar,” said Andrei without hesitation. “You'll be safe in Muscobar. I have friends there who will ensure that you're safe.”
“Oh, but that will mean setting a new course. I couldn't put you in such a position—”
“I'll invent some excuse; new secret orders, or some such.”
“You'd do such a thing for me?” The tears threatened to brim over again.
“For you, dear Celestine,” he said, “anything. You have only to ask. We're heading toward Lapwing Spar. You can stay with Irina for a few days.”
“Irina?” She looked blankly at him. Was she one of his wealthy relations? Or a mistress?
“Irina is Kuzko's widow. You remember Kuzko? He was the fisherman who rescued me after the wreck of the Sirin. No one will find you there.”
“Thank you.” An obscure fisherman's shack? She smiled wanly at him through her tears. “There is one other small thing…”
“Name it.”
“A book of my father's. It's all I have left to remind me of him and they have confiscated it.”
“They deprived you of your only memento of your father? I'll get it back for you, never fear.”
Celestine was watching the moonlight glistening on the sea through the tiny window in her cabin when Andrei eventually returned.
“Is this the book?”
She flew to him and took the grimoire, clasping it to her. “Oh thank you, thank you, Andrei.”
“It's the least I could do.” She rose on tiptoe to kiss him again, just the slightest brush of her lips against his, but his arms went round her, crushing her close. In the moonlight, his eyes burned like twilight stars and she felt a sudden frisson of warning shiver through her. She had sensed there was something different about him earlier on, but now she was certain that this was not the same Andrei she had last seen in Haeven.
“Celestine,” he said hoarsely, “I can't stop thinking about you…” And he pressed his mouth to hers, kissing her more deeply until she began to feel dizzy.
“Drakhaoul,” warned the Faie.
Celestine gazed up into Andrei's eyes and saw a wild, untamed flicker of desire. She realized in alarm that she was in the presence of one of the Seven.
“When?” she whispered, her hands pressing against his shoulders to hold him at arm's length. “When did this happen to you?”
“What do you mean?” There was a dangerous edge to his voice.
“I can see it in your eyes.” She began to back away, her heart thudding faster. “You're possessed.” She came to a halt, her back against the cabin wall, knowing that there was nowhere else to flee to.
“Captain Orlov!” Someone knocked on the door. “Why have you instructed your crew to change course?” It was one of the Inquisitors. “We're no longer on a heading for Francia.”
“New orders!” Andrei called back.
“This is most irregular. I insist on an explanation.”
Andrei let out a grunt of frustration. “I have to go.”
“But what shall I do? If the Inquisitors find out that the book has gone—”
“I can stall them for a while. We have some excellent wine on board; this is a Francian ship, after all.”
“They're Inquisitors, they're trained not to fall for such old tricks. Unless…” It was a desperate measure, but it might work. She pulled her ring off and pressed it into his hand. “There's some powder beneath the bezel; it's sleepdust. Mixed with wine, it should put them into a deep sleep.” She gazed up at him appealingly. “Please, Andrei? For
my sake?”
He hesitated for only a moment. Then he said, “Leave it to me.” Slipping the ring onto his little finger, he kissed her swiftly and let himself out.
As soon as she was alone again, Celestine sank down onto the bunk. “How far can I trust Andrei?” she whispered to the Faie. “Who was talking to me: Andrei or his Drakhaoul?” She could still feel the warning that had shivered through her whole body as he pulled her close to him. She had not felt such raw, visceral fear since the Drakhaoul of Azhkendir swooped down over the Dame Blanche.
“I cannot tell for certain.”
“What do I do if he comes back? He was so strong. He could force me to do anything he wanted and I'd be powerless to stop him.”
“I won't let him harm you.”
As she lay shivering on the bunk, she was no longer sure of whom she was more afraid: Visant's Inquisitors or the Drakhaoul-possessed Andrei.
Jagu, still nursing a pounding headache, arrived at Celestine's villa to find the windows shuttered and the doors locked. A gardener was pruning the roses. He called out to him, “The young lady's gone. Two gentlemen in black came for her yesterday.” “Gone?” Jagu echoed. “Did they say where?” The gardener shrugged and turned back to his roses.
Jagu spurred his horse along the chalky cliff road to the harbor, and as he rode, he cursed himself. Two gentlemen in black. Visant's men? If so, he offered up a prayer that it was not too late to save her.
Vermeille Bay stretched away into the far distance below him, the blue of the sea softened by the first autumn mists. A salty breeze tousled his hair as he approached the broken walls of the citadel. His growing anxiety simmered in his throat until he could hardly breathe.
At the harbor he went from sailor to merchant, asking, and only receiving blank looks. At last a fellow Guerrier told him that the Aquilon had sailed from Colchise for Francia yesterday, carrying Demoiselle de Joyeuse, who had been urgently summoned back to Lutèce by Maistre de Lanvaux.
Why had the Maistre summoned her alone, and not him? Jagu broke out in a sweat at the news.