by Martha Wells
A butler caught Giarde’s attention from the doorway and the Captain motioned him forward. As the servant conferred with the Queen and Giarde, Nicholas said, low-voiced, to Ronsarde, "Well, are we for prison or not?"
"I’m not sure," Ronsarde admitted. "It’s always so hard to tell what the dear child is thinking. Giarde has some influence on her but not as much as appearances suggest." He shrugged philosophically. "You’ve escaped from the Vienne prison twice now, haven’t you? Don’t most sorcerous formulae suggest the third time should be lucky?"
Nicholas rubbed his forehead, to conceal his expression from the others. "Oh, if I’m to be sent to prison I’d prefer it to be for bashing in the head of a Prefecture Inspector and leaving his body in a midden." He was beginning to feel a deep sense of sympathy for Doctor Halle.
Ronsarde chuckled.
The butler retreated and Giarde glanced at them and explained, "Fallier and Albier are here."
The Queen shifted uneasily.
"This should be interesting," Ronsarde muttered.
Nicholas folded his arms. Interesting was a good word for it.
It was Fallier who entered first, Lord Albier following him. Nicholas knew the sorcerer was almost instantly aware of his presence even though he gave no sign of it.
Fallier paused, meeting the Queen’s gaze without challenge but without apology, either. She said nothing, merely looked at him with a light in her eyes that might have been contempt. It was the imperturbable Court Sorcerer who was the first to look away. Turning to Giarde, he said, "I was told this was a matter of some urgency, Captain?" His voice was cool.
"Inspector Ronsarde has some intelligence concerning the sorcerous attack on the Courts," Giarde said. He looked thoughtfully at the sorcerer. "That is all."
Fallier’s eyes narrowed slightly and he looked from Giarde to the Queen. Nicholas saw that her hand, resting on the delicate chair arm, the jeweled rings incongruous next to bitten nails, was trembling. She is seething, he thought. He suspected this wasn’t the first time Fallier had attempted politics, as the Queen had called it.
In the meantime, Lord Albier was staring at Ronsarde, caught between astonishment and anger. He was a large, florid man, very much the type of the military officer. The state of his clothes suggested he had dressed hastily. "Captain, I demand an explanation. Inspector Ronsarde is a wanted man. What the—"
"The Inspector has reasons for his rather odd behavior," Giarde interjected, before Albier could commit the indignity of swearing in front of his sovereign.
Ronsarde smiled at Albier. "Have you been searching for me very hard, sir? If so, I suggest it’s time for another review of the detective force, because I assure you I was not that difficult to find."
Albier reddened. He looked at Giarde and said harshly, "I should have been informed—"
"You’re being informed now," Giarde interrupted, apparently tiring of Albier’s discomfiture. "Have you made any progress on discovering who turned the Courts Plaza into a sorcerous spectacle yesterday?"
Albier retained his control with an effort. "We had nothing to investigate. The sorcerers we called in could find no trace of the identity of the person who caused the disruption." Albier was all but ignoring the Queen, which Nicholas thought was poor judgement indeed.
Giarde nodded to Ronsarde. "I believe the Inspector can shed some light on it. He and his . . . associate have been investigating the matter."
For the first time Fallier’s gaze came to rest on Nicholas. He allowed himself one small smile at the sorcerer’s expense and Fallier turned his attention to Ronsarde, without reacting. He is a dangerous man, Nicholas thought. He was making another enemy tonight, that much was obvious.
Ronsarde cleared his throat and began to describe the events of the past few days, beginning with his investigation of Octave.
Listening to him, Nicholas was pointedly reminded of the current difficulties of his situation. Even his delight at Fallier’s discomfort was dampened.
He had told Madeline that Donatien was dead, but perhaps he hadn’t quite believed it himself until now.
The Inspector’s quiet voice as he told their story was working on Nicholas’s nerves like salt on raw flesh. It has to be this way, he told himself. To get this sorcerer, he would have to have help. He was running out of resources and time and more importantly, they had him dead to rights. There was no other choice.
When he looked back he realized the Queen’s eyes were on him, that she had read his reaction as plainly as if he had spoken aloud. Her gaze flicked away as if she was ashamed to be caught watching him.
Ronsarde told them all they had discovered so far, his deductions and Nicholas’s, their individual and shared discoveries, making it sound as though Nicholas had been working under Ronsarde’s auspices from the very beginning. He left out anything that might hint at less than legal activities on Nicholas’s part . . .The Inspector was making it sound as if he had known Nicholas all his life and that was, in a way, true, just not in the way Ronsarde was implying. You should be grateful, he thought, instead of standing here simmering with resentment. Sebastion Ronsarde, Inspector of the Prefecture, sworn to the Crown, was standing here lying like a market whore to save him. And he was telling those lies to the Queen, who was sitting there blinking solemnly and probably all too aware she wasn’t hearing more than half the real story, but trusting Ronsarde anyway.
As the Inspector finished, Giarde and the Queen were looking at Albier. He coughed and said, "I had heard some part of this before—"
"And believed none of it—" Ronsarde interrupted.
"You had no proof," Albier said heatedly, "only outrageous speculations!"
"I assume the destruction and death yesterday is proof enough?" Ronsarde’s voice was icy, for one moment revealing the bitterness he must have felt at his warnings going unheeded.
"Of course." Albier gestured to Giarde. "But even the great Inspector can give us no clue as to this person’s whereabouts."
This was too much for Nicholas’s abraded nerves. He interrupted, "There is, in fact, one clue."
That got everyone’s attention, including Ronsarde, who stared at him, frowning. Nicholas said, "Doctor Octave, before he was killed by his associate, said that the sorcerer was hiding in a ‘palace on the river.’ "
"There are a number of deserted or unused Great Houses along the river or on the islands," Albier muttered.
"And they will be searched," Giarde said. He looked at the Court Sorcerer, who said, "I will put my apprentices at the disposal of Lord Albier."
The Queen said suddenly, "You’re dismissed."
Albier looked startled, almost offended, and actually looked at Giarde for confirmation, but Fallier bowed and turned at once to go, crossing the parquet floor to the doors.
It must have finally dawned on Albier that there were undercurrents of which he was unaware. He bowed to the Queen and to Giarde said, "I’ll make you aware of any progress." With another dark glance at Ronsarde, he followed Fallier out.
As the doors closed behind them Ronsarde shook his head. "I don’t like to say it, but in light of what brought us here I find I do not entirely trust Fallier."
Giarde glanced at the Queen and seemed to receive some quiet and almost imperceptible signal. He said, "Fallier may be Court Sorcerer, but he is not her majesty’s only advisor in things sorcerous. The person who holds that position is a very old woman who lives in a corner of the main kitchen in the North Bastion. To consult with her it’s necessary to go to the kitchen in question and crouch on a coal scuttle, but she is always correct, and her advice is untainted by political pressures of any kind. I’ll put this before her and see what she thinks." He added, "She sent me a note a short time ago to tell me that within the past few hours there have been no less than three etherial assaults on the palace, all repelled by the wards."
"That. . . isn’t unexpected," Nicholas said. He’s still after us, he thought. Killing Octave didn‘t satisfy him. Perhaps the man was
mad. There was an odd sense of disappointment in that. He really would have preferred a sane opponent. But how could the man be a sorcerer in Ile-Rien and not know the palace at Vienne was the most heavily protected place, both physically and etherically, in this part of the world? The wards that guarded it were woven into the very stones of the oldest parts of the palace, they had been created and maintained by the most powerful sorcerers in Ile-Rien’s history, and some of them were so old they were almost self-aware. How could the man think he could strike at them past that magical barrier? Except. . . . "Fontainon House."
Nicholas looked up to realize everyone was staring at him. Ronsarde nodded and said, "Yes, the reason Octave stayed to perform his circle."
Giarde swore. "Fontainon House is inside the wards."
The Queen was frowning. She looked at Nicholas, brows lowered, and he explained, "During a circle Octave would apparently materialize ghosts. It’s possible he meant to open a circle in Fontainon House, within the wards, and open a way for something else to materialize."
"He leaves bodies strewn like discarded trash," the Queen said, suddenly. She stroked the now somnolent cat with a quick, nervous touch. "I take it we assume he is a madman?"
"The indications are there, my lady," Ronsarde said.
She subsided again, staring bitterly at the carpet.
"Well?" Giarde asked her. There was a stillness to his expression that brought Nicholas back from all thoughts of their sorcerous opponent. He is asking her if we— I— should be released. Ronsarde had done nothing except try to stay alive; Nicholas was the one who presented a problem.
The Queen’s eyes lifted, met Nicholas’s gaze shyly. Shy doesn’t mean weak, Nicholas thought. It would be entertaining to live long enough for Fallier to realize that. She said, "You’re certain?"
That one baffled him. "Your majesty?"
"About the inheritance? About giving it up?"
It was such an ingenuous question, yet he didn’t doubt her seriousness. "I’m certain, your majesty. I was certain a long time ago." He found himself adding, "Of course, a true Alsene would say anything to get out of this, would swear allegiance to the devil even."
She sighed and looked at nothing in particular. Then she stood, gathering her cat in one large ginger armful. She stepped close to Nicholas before he could react, put her hand on his shoulder and said, gravely, "Your aunt Celile still writes to me. If you fail, I shall give her your address."
Then she was making her way to the door, the cat’s tail snapping with irritation at its interrupted nap, while the men in the room hastily bowed.
As the doors closed behind her, Nicholas felt something unclench around his heart and distinctly heard Ronsarde draw a relieved breath. Giarde shook his head, as if in continued amazement at his sovereign’s thought processes. With an air of resignation he asked Ronsarde, "Is there any other assistance you require?"
"Albier was correct on one point," the Inspector said. "We have to find this sorcerer first. We can do nothing until we know where he is."
"The Prefecture will search the abandoned structures along the river with the help of Fallier and his apprentices. Lord Albier will believe he is directing the investigation, but he’ll take my advice, and I’ll take yours."
"A pardon, so I can continue my investigations without impediment, would also be helpful," Ronsarde pointed out.
Giarde folded his arms. "Our influence with the Prefecture is not all inclusive. It will take some time to persuade the Lord Chief Commissioner that your rampage through the lower levels of the prison was done in the Crown’s name." He added, "But I’m sure something can be arranged."
Ronsarde’s bow was a trifle ironic. "In the meantime, I would prefer to stay with my associates and contact the Prefecture through you or Lord Albier."
"That would probably be wise."
Giarde led them out, pausing in the reception room to say, "Take care, Ronsarde. You have powerful enemies."
"Yes, that had begun to dawn on me," Ronsarde confessed.
Giarde sighed and glanced briefly heavenward. "I’m serious. If you leave the palace, I can’t protect you."
"If I don’t leave the palace, I can’t catch him," Ronsarde said, patiently. "And that would be too dangerous for all of us."
Giarde watched him narrowly, then nodded. "We can get you outside the palace walls without drawing unwanted attention. There’s a passage under St. Anne’s Gate that leads to the underground station on the Street of Flowers. My men will take you that far." He glanced at Nicholas, his eyes hooded, then said, "I think you are keeping dangerous company, Inspector."
"Oh come now," Ronsarde said, smiling indulgently. "That’s a terrible thing to say about old Halle."
Giarde glared at him in exasperation. "I’m the only thing that’s standing between you and a few nights in the Prefecture cells, so I’d think you could at least pretend to show me a little diffidence."
"I’m sorry." Ronsarde managed a contrite expression that fooled no one. "I will try to do better."
"Get out, before I change my mind."
Following their escort of Queen’s Guards down the opulent halls, Nicholas waited until they were a safe distance from Giarde and the royal environs, then said, accusingly, "You’re enjoying this."
Ronsarde glanced at him, arching a brow. "And you aren’t?"
There was no answer for that. Seething, Nicholas made no reply.
After a moment of silence, the Inspector said, "Don’t be fooled by her majesty’s rather unusual manner. Her habits of thought are devastatingly precise."
"Whatever gave you the idea I was fooled," Nicholas said, coldly. "It was everything I could do not to accept her offer of marriage at once. I think we would have taken Bisra and half of Parscia within the year."
"A frightening thought." Ronsarde watched him alertly for a moment, then as they reached the head of the staircase, stopped Nicholas with a hand on his sleeve.
Their escort halted on the steps below, looking back up at them impatiently. Low-voiced, Ronsarde said, "We’ll find this madman. We’ll find him because he doesn’t know when to stop. He lacks the professional criminal’s instinctive knowledge of when to cut and run." The expression in Ronsarde’s eyes turned rueful. "That’s why I never caught you. You knew when to stop."
Nicholas swallowed in a dry throat. He wanted to be away from here and pursuing the hunt so urgently it was almost a physical need. He wasn’t sure he knew when to stop, not anymore. "He wants something," he said, starting down the stairs again. "Even if he’s mad, he wants something and we have to know what it is."
The stench rising up from the dark swirling water in the stone pit was truly hellish; the handkerchief Nicholas had wrapped around his mouth and nose did little to mask it. He managed to draw enough of a breath to ask, "But have you noticed anything unusual in the refuse lately?"
The oldest sewerman frowned and paused to lean on his broad paddle, which he was using to direct the flow of sluice water down the channel of the main sewer into the collector pit. "Some days it’s hard to say what is usual," he said, which was a more philosophical answer than Nicholas was hoping for. The man’s much younger assistant, wielding a paddle on the other side of the channel, only nodded in perfect agreement.
Nicholas nodded too, keeping his expression sympathetic. This was only partly because he needed the sewermen’s cooperation to get the information he wanted. After only a few minutes down here it was easy to see that you either became philosophical about your lot in life or you went quickly mad.
It had been three long days since his interview at the palace and the Prefecture’s search along the river had turned up nothing so far, at least according to the frequent bulletins from Giarde. Nicholas was uncomfortable with having his connection to the Alsenes known, even though Halle had been too polite to bring the subject up and Crack, of course, had ventured no opinion at all and Cusard only worried that it would draw attention to them. Reynard had affected to think it amusing, and com
mented, "Now I know why you tried to hand the Duke of Mere-Bannot that bomb at the Queen’s Birthday celebration two years ago."
"I was drunk, Reynard, that’s why," Nicholas had reminded him tiredly. "And besides, Denzil Alsene wasn’t an anarchist. He was a dedicated monarchist, he just thought it should have been him on the throne and not the legally crowned Fontainon who was currently occupying it. That he had to destroy the country to accomplish that goal was immaterial."
Notices in the penny sheets had cautioned people about the sorcerer’s method of obtaining victims and there had been some panic in Riverside and many false reports, all of which diverted constables from the search. Oddly, there had been no more verifiable disappearances in the past few days. Nicholas found that more ominous than reassuring.
He had kept up his own observations of the Prefecture’s efforts, spying on them from various vantage points with Crack’s help and employing Cusard and Lamane’s network of street children and petty thieves to follow their progress. He brought the information back to Ronsarde, who pored over it, muttering to himself, and sent terse orders to Lord Albier through Captain Giarde. Nicholas felt this procedure was highly unsatisfactory; if directing a methodical search was all that was needed, Albier and his cronies were as good at organizing that as anyone else in authority. What was needed was Ronsarde’s reductive abilities, his genius for ferreting out apparently unrelated clues and finding the relationship between them. He needed to be on the scene, where the constables could report their findings directly to him. It infuriated Nicholas that the Prefecture was probably even now overlooking important information, simply because they, didn’t know what they were looking at. He knew the Inspector felt this as deeply as he did.
They had discovered yesterday through a friend of Reynard’s that the warrant issued for Doctor Halle’s arrest had been formally rescinded. This had occasioned an almost violent argument, since Halle had wanted to join the search himself, hoping his experience with Ronsarde’s methods would allow him to bring items of possible significance to the Inspector’s attention that the constables and their officers might overlook. Nicholas had forbidden it on the grounds that their opponents knew Halle was a direct link to Ronsarde; if the doctor tried to take a visible role in the investigation, they would move against him as violently as they had moved against the Inspector. It was no accident that the Prefecture’s principal investigator and the city’s foremost medical expert in violent death had both been effectively stymied. Nicholas knew that there was at least one person behind all this who knew what he was about.