by Martha Wells
The argument had raged on until Madeline had stepped in to explain Nicholas’s point of view, even though he had already explained it several times himself. Halle had grudgingly given in then and Nicholas had stormed out of the apartment to spend an hour kicking gutters in the Philosopher’s Cross and had ended up sitting at Arisilde’s bedside again, hoping for improvement. Part of his anger came from his suspicion that there were things Ronsarde wasn’t telling him.
It was all being taken out of his hands but they couldn’t stop him from pursuing his own line of inquiry.
Which was why he was currently some distance below the street, squatting on a walkway above the stagnant waters of a sewage collector, talking to sewermen and ratcatchers. The lamplight flickered off the oily stone curving above them, though this part of the sewer was well-tended and relatively clean. There were pipes overhead, splitting to cross the domed roof of the collector, some carrying potable water which had been brought in from outside Vienne by aqueducts ever since the city officials had given up the charmingly naive belief that the river water was drinkable if pumped from the deepest current. "This would be within the past five days, say," Nicholas persisted. This was the fifth work group he had spoken to and he had learned he didn’t want to offer suggestions for the items that might have been found, since the sewermen were often of the type of witness who tended to say what you wanted to hear, simply to be polite.
The oldest sewerman straightened, one hand on his obviously aching back, and hailed the two men aboard the small boat that was plying the waters of the collector. "Hey, is there any talk of odd things found in the pits?"
An adroit push from a paddle brought the boat within easy speaking range. There was some chin-scratching and due consideration from the two men in the boat, then one said, "We don’t ever find much in the way of coin or valuables. That’s a myth people tell, like the one about the big lizards."
"I found a silverpiece last year," the youngest one commented helpfully.
"Perhaps I don’t mean something unusual," Nicholas said, trying to think of a good way to explain. "Perhaps I mean an unusual amount of something you often find. Like a large concentration of sand, or bits of ironmongery, or—"
"Bones?" one of the boatmen suggested.
"Or bones," Nicholas agreed, concealing his reaction. "Was that the case?"
"Aye, the word was the Monde Street syphon came up full of bones two days ago. The Prefect figured a wall had broke through in one of the catacombs somewhere and that’s where they come from."
"No," the oldest sewerman disagreed. "If that was it, the water level in Monde would drop and our collectors all down fifth precinct would go dry. There hasn’t been enough rain to fill a catacomb."
The discussion abruptly turned highly technical, as water levels, drainage, rainfall, sluices, collectors, and connecting passages were all brought in as evidence for and against the catacomb hypothesis. Nicholas listened carefully. There were catacombs under Vienne and old covered-over rock quarries, and other places where a wily sorcerer could hide. It was a more likely place than an abandoned river palace, no matter what Octave had said.
The sewermen’s lively discussion moved on to other topics and Nicholas interrupted long enough to bid them good-bye before he moved on to the next group. The sewers called for more research and he had many more questions to ask.
Madeline let herself into the apartment off the Boulevard Panzan, tired and cursing her luck. She had been following the progress of the Prefecture’s search with the others but the frustration of being unable to participate actively was wearing on her. She would have preferred to be off with Reynard, who was pursuing Count Montesq’s possible connection to their mad sorcerer, or Nicholas, who had been damnably uncommunicative about his pursuits.
Doctor Halle was in the salon, standing in front of the fire, apparently as preoccupied and discouraged as she was. He glanced at her as she flung herself down on the sofa and commented, "This inactivity rather grates on one, doesn’t it?"
Madeline laughed ruefully. "I’m glad someone else feels it." She removed her hat, a plain gray affair to match her plain gray walking dress, an assemble guaranteed not to draw attention on the street and which did nothing to lift her flagging spirits.
Halle leaned on the mantel and cleaned out his pipe. "Ordinarily when the Prefecture has no use for me I see patients at the charity hospitals."
Madeline nodded in agreement. "I feel fortunate that I didn’t take a role this season; I wouldn’t have been able to do a farce justice with my mind on this."
His brows lifted. "So you are that Madeline Denare."
"Come now, you knew that."
"I did, but I wasn’t sure I should mention it." He hesitated.
"I’m sure you have questions," Madeline said, carefully.
Halle smiled gently and shook his head. "Only impertinent ones. Why Reynard Morane persists in presenting himself to society as a debauched and dissipated wretch when he’s as sound as a young horse. How a wandering scion of the infamous Alsenes made the acquaintance of so many congenial thieves." He looked at her gravely. "And what you are doing here."
He would ask a hard one, she thought. She shook her head. "I’m not entirely sure of that myself," she admitted.
Halle didn’t show surprise. He regarded her gravely. "How long have you known Valiarde?"
"Since my first real ing้nue role, as Eugenie in The Scarlet Veil. I got into a bit of trouble and Nicholas helped get me out." She saw the expression that Halle hadn’t quite concealed in time and laughed. "No, not that sort of trouble. I had gotten the attention of a rather terrible person called Lord Stevarin. Did you ever hear of him?"
"Vaguely." Halle frowned thoughtfully. "He took his own life at his country home, didn’t he?"
It had been so long Madeline had almost forgotten that part of the story. She nodded and said, "Yes, I believe he did." She would have to judiciously edit the rest of her account. "He was a great theater-goer, but not quite in the way other people are. He would go to look at the actresses, and when he took a fancy to one he would have her abducted, keep her at his town home for a few days— until he was tired of her, I suppose—then dump her out near the river somewhere, usually covered with bruises and too terrified to accuse him of anything. After all, they were only actresses, and he was a lord."
"Good God," Halle said softly. After a moment he looked at her sharply. "Then one day he chose you."
"Yes. He had drugged champagne sent to my dressing room, and then sent his men to haul me off like I was a bag of laundry. Then—"
"You needn’t tell me anymore if you don’t wish—" Halle interrupted hastily.
"No, he never got a chance." She smiled. "I woke in a bedchamber in his town home, he told me his intentions rather baldly, and I . . . brained him with a vase." She wondered what had possessed her to tell this story. You should have made something up. But she didn’t like to lie to Halle and wasn’t doing such a good job of it with a story that was mostly the truth. "I was climbing out the window into the inner court when I met Nicholas climbing up. He had seen me in The Scarlet Veil too, and also had the idea of making my acquaintance but in a more conventional fashion. He saw Lord Stevarin’s men taking away what he thought was a suspicious bundle, discovered I wasn’t in my room and that my dresser had no notion where I’d gone, leapt to a conclusion no one else in his right mind would have leapt to, and followed them. So I got away."
Halle looked at her a long moment, his gaze penetrating. "And Lord Stevarin killed himself in remorse?" he asked finally, as if he meant to believe her answer, whatever it was.
"No." Madeline hesitated, then shook her head. It suddenly seemed pointless to conceal it, what with everything else Halle knew. She said, "That wasn’t quite true. It wasn’t a vase. He had a gun, you see, and I took it away from him and shot him with it. I wasn’t afraid. As soon as I realized what he was, I knew I’d kill him." That was simple truth, though it sounded more like bragging. Mad
eline knew herself well enough to realize it had more to do with a disbelief in her own mortality than courage. That could catch up to you at any moment, she told herself. And you call Nicholas reckless.
Doctor Halle shook his head. "A young woman, abducted and threatened? Not a court in Ile-Rien would see it as anything but self-defense."
"Perhaps." Madeline shrugged. "I never had much to do with courts and Nicholas had good reason not to trust them, after what happened to Edouard. Stevarin had sent his servants away so he wouldn’t be interrupted and so it was very simple to take his coach and transport his body to his country home and make it look like suicide. Nicholas knew how to make it appear as if Stevarin had held the gun, and put powder burns on his hand and around the wound, and all these other things I wouldn’t have thought of if he hadn’t mentioned them. I found it truly fascinating."
Halle watched her a moment, a worried crease between his brows. "Valiarde doesn’t . . . use this against you, does he?"
"No, Nicholas only blackmails people he doesn’t like." She bit her lip. She really wanted to make Halle understand, but she wasn’t sure it was possible. She was only an actress; she didn’t make up those eloquent speeches she gave on stage. "It’s not like that. Nicholas isn’t just a clever criminal. If Edouard hadn’t been killed, he would be a physician or a scholar or a dilettante or . . . . But if Edouard hadn’t taken him in when he did . . . he would be a good deal worse."
"Yet you trust him?" I do.
Halle fiddled with his pipe a moment, then his eyes lifted to meet hers seriously. "Should Ronsarde and I trust him?"
Madeline smiled. "You ask me?"
"You strike me very much as a young woman who goes her own way."
"Nicholas is a dangerous man," Madeline said honestly. "But he’s never betrayed anyone who kept faith with him."
There was the sound of the outer door rattling as someone opened it with a key. Halle cleared his throat almost nervously and Madeline stood, fussing with her hideous hat and unaccountably embarrassed, her face reddening as if the conversation with the doctor had been of a far more intimate nature.
She forgot her embarrassment when Inspector Ronsarde appeared in the doorway, trailed by an expressionless Crack. Ronsarde was waving a telegram and his eyes gleamed with triumph. "At long last, a development," he said. "Summon the others at once!"
Nicholas walked back to the Philosopher’s Cross, threading his way through street vendors and the mid-morning market crowd, until he reached Arisilde’s tenement. He slipped past the concierge, who was arguing with a delivery boy, and started up the stairs.
Nicholas always approached Arisilde’s garret cautiously, though it had remained under observation by Cusard’s men and no one they didn’t know had attempted to enter. Madeline had also visited here with Crack, though they were all careful to take different routes when they left to prevent anyone following them back to the Boulevard Panzan apartment. Nothing had happened here since Arisilde’s illness and Nicholas was almost grudgingly willing to admit that it might be safe.
The door was whipped open before he could knock. Madele stood there, glaring at him. "What, you again?" she demanded. "Don’t you trust me?"
"Since you ask," Nicholas said, stepping past her, "not particularly." Madele was dressed in what she considered "town clothes," a shapeless black dress and a hat with somewhat wilted fabric flowers jammed on her head. He stopped in the hallway to take off his coat and boots, not wanting to take the sewer stink that clung to them into Arisilde’s room. Madele stood and stared at him, her arms folded, her brows lowered in suspicion. "What have you done with Isham?" he asked her.
"He’s out at the shops," Madele said, defensively. "I’ve got to live."
If Nicholas had only the evidence of his eyes to go by, he would have said Madele had done nothing since Madeline had met her at the train station except sleep and devour whatever food was brought into the apartment. But Isham had told him that Madele spent every night seated on the floor of the parlor in front of the fire, working with the herbs and other supplies he found for her during the day. She had made a healing stone by the second night but so far it had done no good for Arisilde. It had, however, cured various fevers, lung ailments, piles, and other illnesses throughout the tenement, including a case of advanced venereal disease on the first floor, simply by its presence in the building, so Isham had no doubt of Madele’s power. Madele had also rearranged the furnishings in the apartment with special attention to the potted plants, mirrors, and glass bric-a-brac. She had pretended to Isham that she was doing it out of sheer eccentricity, but he had recognized it as a very old method of channeling etherial substance and suspected she was trying to use whatever of Arisilde’s power remained in the apartment to help sustain him. Madele had used none of Arisilde’s extensive collection of magical texts and after some subtle observation Isham had concluded that she was illiterate. Nicholas had suspected it before and wasn’t surprised to hear it confirmed. He said, "You realize you’re ‘living’ enough for three or four old women, don’t you?" and continued on to Arisilde’s bedroom. Madele followed him, grumbling.
Nicholas stopped just inside the door to turn up the gas in the wall sconce. Medicine bottles and other medical paraphernalia littered the dresser near the bed, along with an incense burner and some bunches of herbs. "Did the physician come today?"
"Yes," Madele admitted, reluctantly. "Didn’t do a damn thing. How much are we paying him?"
" ‘We’? " Nicholas sat on the bed. Arisilde’s face was white, his eyes sunken in their deep sockets. Isham had kept the sorcerer clean, forced enough water and broth down his throat to keep him alive, followed the physician’s instructions, but there had been no change. Madele had ventured no opinion as to whether the sorcerer’s condition had been caused by a spell or just the inevitable consequences of his much-abused health, but according to Isham she was exploring both possibilities.
One of the necromantic techniques for creating illness was to write an inscription in blood on a piece of linen or skin and bury it near the house of the victim. Isham had searched the neighborhood for anything of that kind with the help of a few hedgewitches of his acquaintance, but found nothing. Madele had looked again with the same result. Can‘t you wake for a challenge, Arisilde? Wouldn’t you appreciate the novelty of defeating a mad sorcerer in battle? Nicholas thought. He said, "More than ‘we’ are paying ‘you.’ Are you asking for further compensation?" Madele had country sensibilities and her idea of compensation would probably be a new hat, which she certainly seemed to be badly in need of.
Madele sniffed and said nothing. Nicholas glanced at her and thought he read defeat in her expression. He looked away. Madele didn’t have a Lodun degree but he suspected she was as knowledgeable as any sorcerer-healer they could find there. And she had been able to do nothing.
The day she had arrived in town Madeline had brought her to the Panzan apartment and they had shown her the sphere. She had held it in her work-roughened hands for a long time, turning it over, watching the wheels within wheels inside it move. Then she had looked up at them with a baffled expression and said, "What in hell is this?"
Madele might have forgotten more sorcery and herbal medicine than most practitioners knew at their best but the principles of natural philosophy that Edouard had used to construct the sphere were a closed book to her. She could sense the power within it but she had no notion of how to reach it.
There was a rattle from the hall as someone tried the outer door of the apartment. Madele darted out of the bedroom and Nicholas stood, reaching for the pistol in his inside jacket pocket. A moment later he heard Isham’s voice and relaxed.
Isham came down the hall, handing off a string bag of bread and onions to Madele, saying, "Take this to the pantry, please, you horrible old woman. Is . . . Ah, you are here." Isham fished a folded telegram out of his sleeve and gave it to Nicholas. "The concierge had this, it arrived only a few moments ago. It is addressed to me but it is surely f
or you."
Nicholas tore it open quickly. Important news— come at once. SR. "Yes," he said, feeling his first flash of hope in three days. "It’s for me."
They came to the place from the river aboard a small steam launch owned by a friend of Cusard’s. Nicholas stood in the bow, ignoring the spray of foul river water. The light was failing but he could see the turrets and chimneys of the house they were approaching outlined against the reddening sky. It was a monolithic bulk, mostly featureless in the shadow, but swinging lamps lit the garden terraces above the river and the Watergate.
Nicholas jammed his hands further into his pockets and braced his feet as a gust of wind tore at him. The air was cold and the water like black glass. The setting sun left the Great Houses lining this side of the embankment in darkness and lit the columns and classical pediments of the buildings on the far side with a pure golden glow. The Prefecture had found the house this morning and it had taken most of the day to convince Lord Albier that Ronsarde and Halle should be permitted to inspect the scene. The battle had been conducted entirely by telegram, with frequent missives fired off to Captain Giarde at the palace for support. In the end Albier had given in with poor grace and Ronsarde and Halle were formally invited to give advice. Nicholas had not been invited but he was here anyway. Madele had not been invited either but she was the only trustworthy source of sorcerous advice they had at present, so she was now huddled in the cabin of the boat, vocal in her displeasure at being forced to cross running water. Madeline had invited herself and was in her "young man" disguise to help forestall questions from Albier and the other representatives of the Prefecture. Crack had not been invited but he was here to guard their backs.