by Martha Wells
"Yes, two centuries ago Gabard Ventarin was King Rogere’s Court Sorcerer and presided at Constant Macob’s execution," Nicholas said. "Do you know what was there, in the large box that was removed from the chamber?"
"I have no idea," Ronsarde admitted. He shook his head after a moment. "We could draw the conclusion that this sorcerer, who seems to believe himself a reincarnation of the Necromancer Macob, had some reason to believe there were relics of his idol stored in the chamber and wished to retrieve them."
"We could draw that conclusion," Nicholas said reluctantly, "but we might also wonder why relics of a famous criminal were buried deep inside a sealed room beneath a powerful sorcerer’s home, and not on display somewhere."
"It isn’t encouraging," Ronsarde agreed. "Whatever it was, Ventarin seems to have felt that it needed to be concealed and guarded. And we must assume our sorcerer opponent has had it since. . . ."
"Four days ago," Nicholas supplied.
Ronsarde gazed curiously at him. "How did you discover the chamber?"
"It was how I and my associates became embroiled in all this," Nicholas said, evasively. "Through an entirely coincidental. . . occurrence." He was not going to tell Ronsarde he and Octave had both decided to rob Mondollot House on the same night. "Octave believed I had been to the room before him and removed something. Oddly enough, I hadn’t. The room was empty when I entered it. Octave wanted to question the late Duke of Mondollot, I assume to ascertain if he discovered the room before his death and removed some part of the contents, but the Duchess refused to cooperate with him." Nicholas hesitated. "Why did you break into Mondollot House? Wouldn’t the Duchess have given you access if you had asked?" After she hid anything linking her to Bisran trading concerns, of course.
"Possibly. After discovering Valent House I realized how very dangerous my opponents were and also, how very influential their friends." Ronsarde’s expression was grimly amused. "It was intimated to me by my superiors, and I use the term lightly, that I just de-emphasize my investigation. To avoid panic, you see."
"Ah," Nicholas breathed. De-emphasize an investigation of multiple abductions and murders, to avoid panic. Yes, that sounds like the Vienne Prefecture. "Which brings us to Count Rive Montesq."
"Yes, he has been shown to have a pernicious influence on Lord Albier, who is currently acting head of the Prefecture." Ronsarde’s gaze sharpened. "I am not surprised you knew that."
Careful, Nicholas reminded himself. Very, very careful. "My interest in Montesq is entirely academic," he said lightly.
"Of course. But all this aside, we must find this sorcerer, and to find him, we must question Octave." Ronsarde let out his breath in annoyance. "Unfortunately, when I was arrested, I lost track of his whereabouts."
Nicholas smiled. "Fortunately, I haven’t."
Nicholas pushed open the kitchen door to find the others all gathered there, most of them standing and staring at the floor as if they were attending a particularly dreary wake. "Are you all just standing about in here?" he demanded. "What’s wrong with you?"
"Everything all right?" Reynard asked, with an uncharacteristic air of caution.
"Of course." Nicholas ran a hand through his hair impatiently. "Madeline, we need to consult you on makeup and clothing for disguises, and Crack, you’ll need to fetch Devis, and Reynard—"
"We?" Halle interrupted, his expression cautious.
"Yes, we. What are you all staring at?" Before anyone could formulate an answer, Ronsarde pushed open the door behind Nicholas. He was leaning heavily on the wall, an expression of grim determination on his features. "I see no reason why I cannot accompany you," the Inspector said, almost peevishly.
"Disguised as what?" Nicholas asked him. "A cripple selling matches?"
"That would be ideal."
"Until you have to run away!"
"I could sit in the coach," Ronsarde persisted.
"What would be the point of that?" Nicholas asked, exasperated. It was like dealing with a less sensible version of Madeline.
"He’s right," Halle said, coming forward to take Ronsarde’s arm and urge him back down the hall toward the salon. "You need rest if you’re to be of any help. You can’t go running about the city. . . ."
Their voices continued, raised in argument, and Nicholas rubbed his hands together, his mind already on the task ahead. "I need to make a list. We’re going to need Cusard for this, too." As he left the kitchen he heard Reynard’s ironic comment, "Oh, good, now there’s two of them."
After setting some of the wheels in motion and sending Crack for Cusard, Nicholas found the others gathered in the salon, looking at the sphere which was set atop a pillow on a small table. It looked like nothing more than an odd sort of curio or ornament. Nicholas leaned in the doorway and folded his arms.
"How does it work?" Halle asked, touching the metal with cautious curiosity.
Madeline looked over at Nicholas, who shifted a little uncomfortably, and said, "We don’t know."
"You don’t know?" Ronsarde echoed.
"Edouard left no instructions," Nicholas explained reluctantly. "None of the intact spheres ever reacted to anything at all, until this one transformed one of the gargoyles back into stone when it attacked Madeline. It was pure chance she had it with her at all. There are two others, but one appears to be dead and the other didn’t react to the gargoyles."
"You did nothing to cause this one to act?" Ronsarde asked, with a hard stare at Madeline. "You felt nothing?"
"I did nothing," Madeline replied, faintly exasperated. "I felt quite a number of things—fear, anger, the desire to shriek with hysteria. I’ve felt those emotions before and never had magic spontaneously erupt." She shook her head impatiently. "I have a small talent for witchery which I’ve never tried seriously to cultivate, but I’ve helped my grandmother with spells and I know what working one feels like. That thing acted all on its own account."
"Madeline’s grandmother is a witch of some repute," Nicholas said, smiling slightly at the understatement. "She’s agreed to attempt to help us with our difficulties and will be arriving soon from Lodun." We hope, he added to himself.
"Is there no sorcerer currently in town whose opinion we could seek?" Ronsarde persisted. He added wryly, "There are some attached to the Prefecture but I can no longer command their assistance. In fact they would be more likely to turn me in to the nearest constable at once."
Halle grunted agreement and Nicholas speculated that Ronsarde had made his opinions on sorcery known in no uncertain terms to the practitioners who worked for the Prefecture. "There is a sorcerer whose advice I would like to have. He was the one who helped Edouard construct this sphere," Nicholas admitted. "But he’s badly ill, in a sort of paralysis."
"Arisilde Damal?" Ronsarde asked, brows lifting.
Nicholas nodded warily. He had forgotten how much Ronsarde had learned about Edouard’s work during the Crown investigation and the trial.
"It was the opinion of many that he had left the country," Ronsarde said thoughtfully. "I was asked several times by persons at Lodun to locate him, but was always unsuccessful."
"That isn’t surprising. If Arisilde didn’t want to be found, it would be impossible to locate him even if you were standing in the same room."
"An unfortunate tendency of sorcerers," Ronsarde agreed., "He is ill?"
"Yes." Nicholas hesitated. "We thought at first it might have been caused by our opponent—it occurred at a rather inopportune moment."
Reynard snorted at the choice of words.
"But it’s more likely the result of poor health and an opium addiction," Nicholas finished.
Halle cleared his throat. "Has he been attended? I could examine him. . . ."
Nicholas shook his head. "He’s being seen by a Doctor Brile, who has already brought in other physicians to consult with. I don’t think there’s anything anyone can do."
There was a moment of silence, then Halle said quietly, "I know Doctor Brile. He’s a very acc
omplished physician and your friend is in good hands."
Nicholas realized he had everyone’s attention and that he must have betrayed more than he meant to. He said, "But the point is there is no other sorcerer I will risk taking the sphere to." He looked down at the apparently innocuous device. "It’s too unpredictable."
Fontainon House itself was unbreachable, at least without Arisilde’s help, and there was simply no possibility of any of their group receiving last-minute invitations. Taking Octave at his hotel would have been the best solution, but they had little time to make arrangements and after a brief scouting mission Madeline reported that the prospects were not ideal. Octave seemed to realize his danger. He spent all his time either locked in his room or in one of the lounges surrounded by dozens of people.
The next best opportunity would have been late at night after the circle, when Octave was relaxed with his success and the other participants would be on the way home and the worse for the large quantities of wine and brandy consumed before and after the festivities. But for some reason he was not quite willing to articulate, even to himself, Nicholas felt it better not to allow Octave to perform the circle at all.
Madeline had questioned this in her usual fashion, during the long afternoon when Nicholas had been trying to work out details and make contact with the more far-flung elements of his organization. "Why should you care what happens to the woman, just because she’s a relative of the Queen? I thought you said once that Ile-Rien could go hang."
"It can still go hang for all I care," Nicholas had replied with some acerbity. "It might be just another one of Octave’s confidence schemes, but if it isn’t, I don’t want to give this fool who thinks he’s Macob another victory."
Madeline had sighed and given up her game of trying to make him admit fond feelings for his home country. "If he was a fool, we wouldn’t be in this mess, would we?"
"No," Nicholas had admitted. "No, we wouldn’t."
At the first opportunity he and Madeline had put together disguises out of the things she had purchased for tonight and, with Crack along for protection, gone to Arisilde’s garret in the Philosopher’s Cross. Nicholas had taken the sphere with him, out of a hope he didn’t dare voice to anyone else. But he knew it was a foolish hope when Madeline sat on the edge of Arisilde’s bed with it and the sphere did nothing but hum and tremble, the way it did in the presence of any magic.
"It’s no good," Madeline had said, when he followed her to the door. "It must be a natural illness, as the doctor thought, and not a spell."
"It was worth a try," Nicholas said. "You and Crack go on and take the sphere back. I’ll be along shortly."
She had hesitated, but in the end she had gone without questions.
Nicholas went back to the bedchamber and took a chair near Isham, who was patiently guarding his friend. Arisilde looked the same as he had that first night, his face drawn and pinched, his skin pale as wax. "We’ve got some help for you. She should be arriving tomorrow," Nicholas told Isham, and explained about Madele.
"She will be much welcomed," Isham said. He was seated in a straight-backed chair at Arisilde’s bedside and looked worn and tired. "The physicians say they can do nothing." Isham watched the sorcerer’s still face for a time, then said, "I used to try to stop him, sometimes. I talked and talked, which did no good, and then I tried to hide his poisons, which was foolish. If I destroyed them he simply got more."
"Hiding things from Arisilde is rather problematic," Nicholas agreed. Isham was skirting the edge of something that had occupied his own thoughts. "I should have tried harder myself. He might have listened to me." Admitting even that much was an effort. Nicholas had never liked to give in or acknowledge defeat. Maybe if he hadn’t been so afraid of failure he would have tried harder.
Isham shook his head. "We can only work with what we have."
On impulse Nicholas asked, "What did you make of the sphere?"
"I’ve never seen its like before." Isham had examined the device tentatively before Madeline had taken it away, but made no comment on it. "It’s something Arisilde has made?"
"He helped make it. It’s capable of working magic; Madeline used it once or twice but she isn’t sure how. It seems to work if and when it likes."
"Rather like Arisilde," Isham observed.
"Rather like," Nicholas agreed, smiling.
Later, back at the apartment, they had held another council of war. They agreed that the only time to take Octave would be when he was on the way to Fontainon House. This was complicated by Reynard’s discovery that the royal cousin meant to send her own coach for the spiritualist.
"You realize of course that we’re all going to be executed as anarchists," Reynard had pointed out.
"It may be a royal coach, but there’s not going to be anyone royal in it, and it won’t be guarded as if there were."
"So we’ll only appear to be anarchists to the untrained eye."
Nicholas rubbed his forehead. "Reynard. . . ."
"If we succeed in capturing Octave, then what?" This was from Doctor Halle.
"Then we ask him where his sorcerer is." Nicholas leaned back against the escritoire and folded his arms, anticipating the next objection.
"And if he doesn’t want to tell us?" Halle said.
Nicholas smiled. "Then we explain to him that it would be better if he did."
"I won’t participate in that," Halle said flatly. "And I won’t condone it."
"You saw Valent House," Nicholas said. "We know Octave condoned that. For all we know he participated."
"And I won’t lower myself to that level."
You can’t talk to these people, Nicholas thought. "I doubt we’ll have to go quite as low as that," he said, lifting a brow. "Octave doesn’t seem the stoic type to me."
Later, Nicholas had been walking down the passage outside the salon, when he heard Doctor Halle’s voice from within and the words made him pause. "Are you certain you know what you’re doing?"
Ronsarde’s voice, preoccupied, replied, "You will have to be more specific, old man."
"I’m talking about Valiarde." Halle sounded impatient.
Ronsarde chuckled. "He’s an ally, Cyran, and a good one. You and I are getting somewhat old for all this—"
"That’s beside the point." Halle took a deep breath, then said quietly, "Have you looked into that young man’s eyes?"
There was a moment’s silence. Then in a far more serious tone, Ronsarde said, "Yes, I have. And I’m greatly afraid that I’m one of the men who helped place that cold opacity there. He wasn’t like that before his foster father died."
"So you will, at least, be cautious."
"I’m always cautious."
"Now that’s a damned lie. You would like to think yourself cautious but I can assure you—"
The conversation devolved into commonplaces and after a moment, Nicholas walked on. None of it meant anything, of course. Neither one of them knew him at all. But it took an effort of will to avoid the mirror at the end of the passage.
The mist was thick, pooling heavily around the nearest street lamp like the creature of the fay called the boneless, which had once haunted the less well-travelled country roads. Arisilde and some of the sorcerers who had spoken of their craft at Lodun favored the presence of mist for the working of illusions; Nicholas couldn’t help but wonder if it aided the working of more dangerous magics as well.
He paced along the stone walk at the edge of the muddy street, rubbing his arms for warmth. The neighborhood was blessedly quiet. Directly behind Nicholas was a block of upper-class apartments with a row of arabesqued lintels under the second floor windows and an ornamental ironwork fence along the street level. The main entrance was on the cross street, and the inhabitants would mostly be out dining or at the theater at this time. Across from it was the massive, forbiddingly dark facade of an older Great House, closed for the season except for caretakers. On the upper corner was the side entrance of a quiet and highly respectable hotel.
There was little traffic except for the occasional passerby and the cabriolet parked near the walk. It was an older vehicle, purchased this afternoon for this purpose, and Devis was on the box, making occasional clucking noises at the two rented horses. Nicholas was dressed as a cabman too, in a slightly shabby greatcoat and fingerless gloves, and a round cap tipped back on his head. Together they must have made a convincing impression, since several people had tried to hire them, only to be told they had already been hired for someone inside the apartments.
For all the apparent quiet of the neighborhood, Fontainon House was only a few hundred yards down the street. Nicholas could see the gas lamps illuminating its carriage entrance, and sometimes hear the voices of an arriving party. Everyone had had something to say about his choice of site for the ambush, but there had been no other place on the possible routes between here and Octave’s hotel that was fairly quiet and that Nicholas was sure the coach would have to pass.
They would just have to be quick and not only for fear of the constables and the detachment of the Royal Guard attached to Fontainon House. They were only safe from the sorcerer while he believed Nicholas and Ronsarde to be dead. After this, he’s going to know we’re definitely not dead, Nicholas thought grimly. Out of our minds and flailing about like idiots maybe, but not dead.
One of the horses lifted her head and snorted and an instant later Nicholas heard the clop of hooves from an approaching vehicle. He and Devis exchanged a look and Devis straightened up and adjusted his reins nervously.
Nicholas stepped into the street to meet the cabriolet as it materialized out of the mist. It was his own vehicle, the one Devis usually drove, with Crack and Reynard on the box. Nicholas caught the bridle of one of the horses, stroking the anxious animal’s neck as it recognized him and began to aggressively snuffle at his pockets for treats. "They’re not far behind us," Reynard said in a low voice as he leaned down. "Two coachmen, one groom on the back, no outriders. And the coach doesn’t have the royal seal, only the Fontainon family crest."