An Alchemy of Masques and Mirrors--A Novel

by Curtis Craddock

  More importantly, why had this man chosen DuJournal for a disguise? To get her attention, clearly. She had never made any secret she was DuJournal’s publisher, but she always maintained that she had never actually met the man, instead receiving his manuscripts by post. It added to his air of mystery.

  Had this imposter discovered her secret? If so, why announce himself to her in this way? Did he mean to blackmail her? The Temple would not hesitate to drag her right out of the ballroom to be blinded and deafened if they knew she had been engaging in forbidden scholarship … but this DuJournal could hardly expose her as the author of those books without also exposing himself as an imposter surely not welcome in the royal court.

  Stifling outrage, she gestured the fraud forward. “Lord DuJournal,” she said civilly; she was good at civil. “What a surprise. I never expected to meet you in person. Your writings always expressed disdain for court life.” She wanted to have him clapped in irons. Alas, she would learn nothing from such a move. Far better to engage him, wrap his strings around her fingers, and tug them ever so gently to find out where they led. That was just the sort of thing Martin DuJournal would do, and she was not going to let an imposter beat her at her own game.

  DuJournal bowed. “Your Highness, I would not have missed the chance to meet you even if this ball were being held in the Halls of Torment. Allow me to humbly thank you for your kind patronage of my poor works. I regret my greeting gift is not so grand as to be commensurate with your generosity, but if there is any little way in which I may be of service, it would be my honor.”

  Clearly this was an opening not to be missed, but rage drove all inspiration from Isabelle’s head. “What do you imagine you can do for me?” No, that isn’t what I should have said—

  But the fraud pressed on, undeterred. “No challenge so far is beyond my reach. After all, it was I who proved Holcomb’s Theorem, which was thought unsolvable.”

  Isabelle’s hand clenched on the arm of her chair. Liar, I proved it. Me. Even with all her practice enduring abuse in her father’s court, it was a special effort to keep from springing from her seat and throttling him. Her father had hated her for something she wasn’t. The imposter was trying to steal something she was.

  After a steadying breath, she said, “I shall think on it. Tell my secretary how you may be contacted.”

  The fraud bowed himself out, and Isabelle continued receiving people whose faces she could not see and whose names she could not remember. She could not understand how some people seemed to enjoy a state of rage. Rarely had she felt more powerless. A bloodshadow might have paralyzed her body, but with uncontrolled anger her mind seized up.

  As the hot iron slowly cooled, she considered the distinct possibility that the fraud might not be acting entirely on his own account. To be invited to a party like this, a lowly Célestial mathematician would have needed a sponsor to introduce him. To Julio she whispered, “Do you know who supplied DuJournal with an invitation?”

  Julio said, “No, but Kantelvar might.”

  “Someone other than Kantelvar.”

  “Ah. Yes. Don Angelo would know, or rather his secretary would.”

  Then she would have to speak to Don Angelo as swiftly as possible. By the time the last petitioner finally bowed himself away from her, Isabelle’s spine was stiff and her backside sore. She was ready for motion. At some unspoken command, the floor cleared, and the orchestra that had been providing background music for the lumbering ceremony came together for something more exciting.

  To Julio, Isabelle said, “Shall we take the first dance?” It was tradition.

  “Alas, I have but one left foot.” He knocked on the hollow wooden shell that filled his right boot. “It’s all I can do to get around on my cane.” He gestured to a polished walking stick that had been innocuously propped against the side of his chair all evening.

  Isabelle winced at her faux pas. “My apologies.” She settled back in her seat, disappointed and relieved at the same time.

  “Have no fear,” Julio said. “I shall have my second escort you.” He snapped his fingers and a polite young man appeared to lead Isabelle out on the floor. The queen, too, took a substitute partner in the form of Duque Diego. King Carlemmo slouched in his seat, hardly more than a skeleton buried in layers of purple velvet. Kantelvar clanked up and began whispering fiercely in Julio’s ear.

  The music struck up. Isabelle was not the world’s best dancer but neither was she the worst, and tonight she gave the exercise her all. It was not easy to manipulate her prosthetic hand through the necessary clasps, but Julio’s second showed her to her best advantage.

  Diego led Margareta around the floor as if he were directing troops in a complex drill. Their lips moved in conversation, but neither one of them was pretending to smile.

  The second dance rolled around, and Isabelle had no shortage of willing partners, but she was not at all surprised when Diego cut in front of a junior member of the nobility. “Your Highness.”

  “Your Grace,” she said through gritted teeth. Saints, she was not ready for this conversation, for any of this intrigue, but the moment was upon her, a duel of wits at slightly less than arm’s length.

  She was actually taller than Diego, though he outweighed her considerably. She got the impression his hands could crush stone. His presence was not as expansive as Grand Leon’s, but nearly as heavy.

  They exchanged only pleasantries as the dance floor filled up, but when the music began, he asked, “Who do you serve, Highness?”

  He was a military thinker, Isabelle decided, and this was his first sally, not a main thrust. “I am not sure I understand the question.”

  “Do you serve Aragoth or l’Empire Céleste? Whose interests do you hold dearest to your heart? Your family’s?”

  Isabelle smiled sharply. It was the second time she’d had this conversation, albeit with different men for different reasons. “I serve peace.”

  “The problem with peace is that it cannot defend itself.”

  “That is why it has me.” She wasn’t sure precisely where these fierce words were coming from. Perhaps it was the faceless swirl of the masquerade, or perhaps it was her banked fury after the conflagration of rage, but the thrill of battle was upon her. She didn’t know if she was wrong or right, only that she must win. This must be how Jean-Claude felt all the time.

  “Do you intend to defend all of Aragoth by yourself?” Diego asked.

  “Of course not, but men of action must be led by men of virtue, else there is no honor, merely chaos and barbarism. If your lord and master ordered you to put away your sword, would you do it?”

  “There is the tricky matter of who my master is,” Diego said.

  “El Rey de Espejos,” Isabelle said.

  “But when Carlemmo is dead, who will be el rey? That is the matter that must be settled.”

  “And if the brothers can decide it between themselves, will you honor their decision?”

  Diego did not answer until very nearly the end of the dance. His expression was closed, like a man playing thwarts in the dark, trying to picture the whole board and every possible configuration. We both are: white princess tilts with black duque.

  At last he said, “It is unfortunate you could not identify the man who boarded your ship.”

  Isabelle’s heart raced. Was Diego truly unaware that his operative had been named, or was he merely fishing for confirmation? Could she split the difference?

  “I would know him if I saw him again,” Isabelle said.

  “Truly?” Diego asked, and then danced a few more thoughtful beats. “In that case, this conversation is premature. It will be more fruitful on the morrow. My secretary shall contact yours.”

  He timed his statement to the last bar of the song, giving Isabelle no choice but to curtsy and back up a step. He strode from the dance floor before she could recapture him, going where? To warn his operative perhaps? Isabelle wished she had someone to follow him. Where was Jean-Claude when she neede
d him?

  The next dance started, and Isabelle was forced to concentrate on giving a good impression of herself to her partners and all observers. It was not long until the faux Lord Martin DuJournal slithered into her dance queue. He wore a pleasant expression, and his eyes sparkled with an inner humor that made her want to throttle him. He was laughing at the world, and most specifically at her, like a brazen thief wearing stolen jewels to the very house he had burgled.

  Yet if she refused him, she gave up a chance to learn what he was about. She tamped down her bile as he took her hand and led her through the first steps of a one-partner dance.

  “Have you become suddenly greedy, milord?” she asked. “An introduction and now a dance. Much loftier men have gotten much less from me.”

  He said in la Langue, with the accent of a man educated in Rocher Royale, “Dire need calls for desperate measures. I have news I must present to you in person and in private.”

  “You have my full attention.” And an outsized portion of her loathing; DuJournal was her creation. Did the imposter actually know that?

  They stepped through a complex dip and exchange before he said, “This is not the place for such proofs as I have to present.”

  “Proofs of what?” she said. “Your identity? We both know you’re not the real DuJournal.”

  “If such a man even exists,” he said without breaking rhythm. “Which I am inclined to doubt. Of course, after my appearance here tonight, very few other people will be inclined to doubt it, which is a favor I grant you free of obligation.”

  “Then what do you want?”

  He twirled her around to face Kantelvar, who was now deep in conference with Julio and Queen Margareta. Oh, to be a flea on one of those curs to hear that conversation.

  “Have you any idea what drives yon artifex in his scheming?”

  Isabelle’s heart skipped a beat, her fury arrested by the possibility that this imposter might have information she could use against Kantelvar.

  “Which scheming?” she asked. Who knew how many plots the man had?

  DuJournal said, “I am told that he promised Margareta her son would be king, and he also promised Príncipe Alejandro that Julio would never sit upon the throne. It is said he always keeps his promises, but I simply fail to see how two such promises can be compatible.”

  “Of what concern is it to you?” Even if what he said was true—and she wasn’t about to take a fraud at his word—the idea that Kantelvar might be playing both flanks against the center was not exactly news.

  “Because he made a promise to me as well in return for a favor I now regret.” His tone was stiff and somber.

  “And what does it have to do with me?” Isabelle asked.

  “Because you are the fuse in the powder keg with which he means to crack the world.”

  Isabelle’s head felt light. Did he know of Kantelvar’s breeding program? Could he confirm his intent to conjure the Savior? “How much do you know of his plans?”

  The music stopped.

  DuJournal cursed under his breath and whispered, “Allow me to meet you after the ball, and I will bring you proofs of his villainy.”

  He bowed and she curtsied. At the bottom of the move she whispered, “And will you tell me then who you really are?” If he agreed to meet with her after that, then she knew he was serious, or at least desperate.

  His eyes narrowed but he replied, “All will be revealed.”

  “Then I shall arrange it with my secretary.” The overworked Olivia, who had been saddled with the task of plotting out Isabelle’s social obligations in one-minute increments.

  Isabelle danced the rest of the evening proficiently but without feeling. Her mind raced down paths of reason but kept stepping in puddles of madness and confusion. What had seemed a mere political dispute mixed up in a family tragedy had grown and transformed into something that had no name, no center. Builder, but she wanted Jean-Claude and she wanted him now. Only to him could she speak without hesitation or reservation.

  At last, midnight struck, the dancing stopped, the orchestra fell silent, and the circulating servants stilled as the clock tower bells boomed. When the last echoing gong had died away, the crown herald took Isabelle’s arm and escorted her with a brace of royal trumpeters to the foot of the dais. It was time for the unmasking.

  The trumpeters raised their silver clarions and blew a clear shrill blast that made Isabelle’s ears ring and chased away the weariness of the hour. Then the herald raised his voice to a penetrating yet musical pitch and announced, “His Royal Majesty el Rey de Espejos, King Carlemmo II.”

  Carlemmo stood, shakily. For a moment, Isabelle feared he would not be able to stand all the way up without assistance, but his regal will would not be denied, and, with a modicum of grace, he removed his skyship mask. At the sight of their king revealed, the whole audience made obeisance, bowing and curtsying and removing masks.

  Yet it was not the king’s visage that made Isabelle gasp. It was Julio’s. When her betrothed removed his wyvern mask, she could but stare in shock and dawning horror, for she had seen him once before, staring up at her from her own sketchpad aboard the Santa Anna. It was the face of the man who had tried to burn her ship from under her. Julio was Thornscar.

  CHAPTER

  Fourteen

  It was lucky that Isabelle’s throat constricted at the sight of Julio’s face, or she might have screamed. The man who had tried to kill her had been sitting right next to her, chatting with her, lying to her.

  She took a step away from him. Her lips peeled back in revulsion. This could not be right. She’d only ever seen Thornscar in a drawing by her own hand. Could she have made a mistake? No. Jean-Claude and Vincent had both confirmed the picture’s accuracy. Besides, what were the odds against so perfectly capturing someone by accident? This was the same man … except this man had no scar, no ragged welt running down the side of his face. She should have seen that sooner.

  Scars could be concealed by clever makeup, or created by it. But the scar was his namesake. Would he fake that? Why not? Give yourself a nom de guerre like Thornscar and a scar is all people will look for … except he hadn’t given himself that name.

  Julio gazed upon her avidly; his drunken leer magnified her loathing. She jerked her gaze away, only to have it land on Kantelvar, still flanking the dais, watching her from the green-tinged shadows of his cowl. A hot spike of anger jabbed through the web of her confusion. He was the one who had named the saboteur Thornscar. How dare he ambush her like this? Did he think she wouldn’t recognize her would-be killer?

  Comprehension hit like a thunderbolt. Of course he did not expect her to recognize Julio as Thornscar. He didn’t know about the portrait. He thought she was ignorant of her attacker. But surely he must have realized that Jean-Claude would recognize the prince. Jean-Claude and Vincent. But Vincent had been killed before he ever got a look at the príncipe, and Jean-Claude had nearly died, and Kantelvar had taken the purse with the bullet, except he had found no bullet. No, he had made sure there was no bullet, so no one would doubt that the shooting had been done by a Glasswalker. He was trying to remove the witnesses, the only people he thought could discover his plan.

  Isabelle was dimly aware that everyone in the ballroom was staring at her. She was still standing at the foot of the dais, in full view of the crowd, and she must have looked stunned and ready to faint. She faced the king and curtsied deeply—curtsying to a king was never the wrong thing to do—and tried to plan her next move, or her first move in a whole new game.

  “Rise,” Carlemmo muttered.

  Isabelle straightened, slowly, majestically, drawing out the moment like a ballet dancer. She made eye contact with King Carlemmo. “Thank you for this glorious welcome,” she said. “A celebration like this should go on forever.” She paused a beat for effect and swept the crowd with her gaze. “Or at least until dawn.”

  That small, safe jest drew polite applause and resulted in a resumption of the music. Isabell
e glided away from the dais, gave Olivia the word to add DuJournal to her schedule, then sought out Don Angelo, who seemed to be the king’s man and no other’s.

  He beamed at her and gave a polite half bow. “Highness, how may I serve you?”

  “Two things,” she said, drawing him away from the group with which he had been mingling. “First, I would have you seek out my musketeer. I have a task I need him to perform.”

  Don Angelo’s silvered brows drew down. “Is something the matter, Highness?”

  “Nothing,” she lied. “It is a personal matter between me and his master, for which he is the only suitable go-between. Will you help me?”

  Don Angelo looked as if he wanted a better explanation but said, “Of course.”

  That was a relief. If she was right, Kantelvar had murderous intentions toward Jean-Claude, and he must be warned. And if there was some other truth, she would still feel happier knowing he was safe.

  “And the second thing. Might you tell me who invited that mathematician, Lord DuJournal, to the ball?”

  “Has he offended you, Highness?”

  Isabelle still didn’t like anyone stealing her work, but if the imposter could help her expose Kantelvar’s schemes to the world she’d let him keep the name. “Quite the contrary. It was very thoughtful of his patron to invite someone with whom I might speak in my native tongue. I wish to thank the patron personally.”

  Don Angelo brightened at this. “In that case, it is my pleasure to tell you that his invitation was given to me by Princesa Xaviera.”

  Isabelle was nonplussed; that was an entirely unanticipated angle. Contrary to rational expectations, Princess Xaviera had been the least of Isabelle’s concerns. Did this mean that she knew about Isabelle’s literary double life? If so, sending a DuJournal imposter was a strange way of showing it. Or was Xaviera also a dupe of the imposter?

  “Where is she now?” Isabelle asked. The seat Xaviera had occupied earlier was empty, and she was not to be seen on the dance floor.