An Alchemy of Masques and Mirrors--A Novel
Page 45
By the time he finished, Diego’s coach had returned to his town home, and they all made their way inside. Jean-Claude acquired another cane and barely resisted a cup of wine.
“I will send a ship for them,” Diego said. “Amerigo, if you will assist.”
“I need soldiers. I imagine that Captain Felix has interdicted the Naval Orrery by now.”
“Take what men you need.”
“Kantelvar may have switched out the chartstone on his ship,” Jean-Claude said.
Don Amerigo frowned but said, “We won’t know until we look. And even if he has … well, we shall see.”
“What is that supposed to mean?”
“It means I will explain on the way. Come.”
Never had Jean-Claude wanted so much to pounce on an offer, not even when he had been admitted by the musketeer academy, but could he serve Isabelle by rushing forth to meet her, or by making sure she had a place to land?
“As much as my soul yearns to accompany you, if you can fetch Isabelle, then I am afraid I have work to do here.” He had to contact Grand Leon and let him know Isabelle was still alive. That would be the greatest protection he could afford her. To Diego he said, “If I might prevail upon your guesthold for a change of clothes, a weapon to protect myself in these dangerous streets, and someone to go attend poor Marie…”
“Of course.” Diego snapped his fingers and summoned a minion to fulfill Jean-Claude’s needs. For once, Jean-Claude was more grateful than annoyed with this brusque efficiency. Barely had he shrugged into a new set of clothes, fine but not fancy, when another servant came in and summoned him to Diego’s side. He found the duque in the entry hall.
Diego said, “Margareta has summoned all of her faithful servants to witness the king’s passing and attend Alejandro’s trial for regicide.”
“That didn’t take long,” Jean-Claude said dryly. “You’d almost think she was expecting this turn of events.”
“The trial is a sham, and everyone knows it. What will matter is whether his conviction and execution will enrage or dishearten his supporters, and that will depend on his behavior during the trial. If he is vigorous in his own defense, then his death will inflame his faction against the queen. If he is passive, it will dishearten them. As long as Margareta holds Xaviera in the Hellshard, he is likely to be passive.”
“And you want him to be active. Why?”
“Because then, after he has been executed, Julio will return. Margareta’s pretender will be exposed as a fraud and all the factions will unite behind Julio.”
“Even l’Empire,” Jean-Claude surmised, “because he will have Isabelle at his side.”
“Precisely,” Diego said, and Jean-Claude judged him sincere.
“And that is why you are going to ask me to rescue Xaviera, to put fire in Alejandro’s heart, so that he will provide a more inspirational death.”
Duque Diego was solemn. “You know as well as I that this can only end with the triumph of one prince and the death of the other. So has it always been, and your Isabelle is to be wedded to our faction. Will you not serve her now as you have so faithfully throughout?”
“Of course I will,” Jean-Claude grunted. Nor would he so quickly turn his back on Alejandro, who had saved his life twice.
Duque Diego said, “Your master, as well as other heads of state, has been invited to attend in person or by proxy, to ensure that the event is as broadly and irrefutably witnessed as possible. At last report I heard Leon had arrived in the vessel of his emissary.”
“I will convey your intent to him,” Jean-Claude said.
They mounted the coach and spent much of the drive through the tense and empty streets discussing Jean-Claude’s insertion into the castle. There was a cook who would open a door for a man with the right passphrase. Felix would almost certainly be at the queen’s side, with the key to the Hellshard in his belt pouch.
“Just what is the Hellshard anyway?” Jean-Claude asked.
“It is a spike, a spire of quondam stone, six feet high and shaped like an obelisk, that hovers about a foot off the ground. Nobody knows how. Likely they will bring it out for the trial, just to remind Alejandro what is at stake. Nobody knows what its original purpose was, or if it even had one, but now it is a special kind of torture. The ring that Felix holds is like a door. Anything that passes through is drawn out, almost like a wire, and spooled into the Hellshard.”
“Would that not be fatal?”
“One would think, but the transference itself is not damaging. I am informed, by a man who has been through it, that it was like having his identity torn apart, memory from memory. The man in question was only in there for a few minutes, but he was never quite the same again afterward.”
“Xaviera has been in there for hours,” Jean-Claude said, feeling sick.
“Then I fear for her sanity. The only way to get something out of the Hellshard is to run the shard itself through the ring. At that point, the Hellshard unspools and releases its captive.”
The carriage entered the palace grounds and merged with a train of similar conveyances, all under heavy guard. The field in front of the royal residence was crowded with onlookers on foot, and thousands more streamed in through the outer gates. Apparently, no one had thought to keep them out. The changeless present in which the masses lived had just become a formless future, and so they milled together like cattle before an oncoming storm.
Progress slowed to a crawl as Diego’s carriage pressed through the mob. It was all the outriders could do to keep a path clear.
Jean-Claude said, “I shall make better progress on foot.” He pushed open the door and set off toward the side entrance of the palace, slithering through the crowd as easily as a snake through tall grass. Even so, it was a long way around the building for a man with a limp, and he had plenty of time to curse the Aragoths’ love of oversized architecture.
He had just reached a corner that would take him out of sight of the main entrance when a great blast cracked the air. Bomb! He whirled to see a cloud of wooden splinters raining down from a rising cloud of black smoke. Diego’s carriage. The duque’s pennon fluttered and flapped like a wounded vulture, and in the space cleared by the blast, Jean-Claude viewed the shattered corpse of a man in mourning black. Diego.
“Breaker’s hells!”
Terrified people and horses shrieked. The injured wailed. The crowd surged away from the point of detonation, thousands of people all trying to escape the same space at the same time. A wave of panic rippled outward, uniting the crowd in the purpose of flight.
Jean-Claude lurched toward the side of the palace. He rounded the corner just in time to take shelter from a wave of people crashing against the wall in their haste to escape, crushing and trampling one another in their fear.
Only then did he have time to wonder what had happened, or rather how it had been done. Had someone used the crowd for cover and just lobbed a bomb in the coach window? An anonymous face throwing an anonymous grenade … except that explosion was too big to be an ordinary hand bomb.
Even more important than how was why. What did Margareta know about Diego that he hadn’t known she knew? Was Margareta even behind this? Builder only knew how many other factions there were in play.
So forget causes; what were the consequences? As far as Jean-Claude knew, everybody else in the court thought Diego was Margareta’s staunchest ally. His death would therefore be blamed on her enemies, increasing the outrage against Alejandro and his faction. Worse, Jean-Claude knew of no one in Margareta’s faction except Amerigo who knew enough to level a charge of treachery against Margareta, and by the time Amerigo returned from sending a ship for Julio and Isabelle, the trial would be over. When she did return, Isabelle would sail straight into a trap.
Jean-Claude had to find Grand Leon, let him know Isabelle was still alive, and warn him about Margareta’s treachery. Then, with any luck, he would be ordered to make the way clear for Isabelle’s return. Surely Grand Leon would not want M
argareta or her puppet to be sitting on the throne when Isabelle returned, and here he was, with a way into her palace, where confusion was rampant and a lone assassin might find a way to improvise. He would never have a better chance at making sure her reign of terror never became official … but if he got caught, the entire blame would fall on l’Empire Céleste, and on Isabelle by proxy once she was brought back to San Augustus.
So don’t get caught.
The palace’s side entrances were all manned by guards who were demonstrating an annoying level of discipline by staying on post despite the commotion around the front of the building. Jean-Claude was supposed to meet his contact at the third door along. Could this be a trap as well? Jean-Claude checked the sword at his hip.
He raised his hands up away from the weapon as he approached the wary-looking guard at the door. “Excuse me.”
“What’s going on out there?” the guard asked. People were still streaming by behind Jean-Claude, but the force of the stampede had been absorbed by the size of the grounds.
“Fireworks,” Jean-Claude said. “A very inappropriate display. It caused a panic. Look, I’m here to see Javier, it’s about his mother.” This was not exactly the script he was supposed to be using, but it hit on the key elements.
The guard looked momentarily nonplussed, then he knocked on the door. When a cook’s helper stuck his head out the guard said, “Tell Javier there’s a man here about his mother.”
The assistant disappeared and was replaced a moment later by a swarthy man in a cook’s apron. He gave Jean-Claude a look that said quite plainly that he was not the man Javier expected. “My mother?”
“She has a message for you concerning your wedding.”
“Ah. Well, come in then.” Javier looked at the guard for confirmation of permission and then drew Jean-Claude inside.
Jean-Claude stepped in warily, but the pastry kitchen was notably devoid of ambushers. No sooner had the door closed behind him than Javier whispered, “Did Diego send you? What’s going on out there?”
“Yes, and somebody set off a bomb in the courtyard.”
“What!” The cook’s yelp got the attention of all the other kitchen workers. “Has the fighting started?”
Jean-Claude made a shushing motion and spoke through his teeth. “Don’t panic. No, it has not, and with any luck it won’t. You just go about your business, don’t listen to any rumors, and if anyone asks, I was never here. Understand?”
Javier nodded, and Jean-Claude clapped him on the shoulder. “Good. Now point me in the direction of the royal wing.”
On the way out of the kitchen, Jean-Claude absconded with a double handful of raspberry tarts; it had been ages since he’d had a decent meal. Amongst the many pieces of advice he was sure his mother would have given him if she’d ever thought about it was “Never set out to murder a monarch on an empty stomach.”
* * *
The royal palace was so vast and convoluted that it seemed to Jean-Claude that it took him roughly two-thirds of forever to locate the royal wing, and he had yet to find a way in to get to Grand Leon. All the doors were guarded, the guests escorted, and the servants identified.
He could only imagine what was going on in the Hall of Mirrors: King Carlemmo’s corpse laid out, the queen and her fake príncipe in mourning garb, the foreign dignitaries offering condolences of various levels of sincerity, the noble guests agitated by the king’s demise and Duque Diego’s murder, Alejandro in chains and surrounded by guards, his bloody knife on the table as evidence of his misdeed.
Jean-Claude made another slow orbit of the guarded perimeter, moving through secondary hallways, passageways, and the occasional drawing room while keeping far enough away from the guarded entrances to avoid earning any soldierly attention. Every now and then the floor vibrated with the reports of cannons. The shelling had started an hour ago, and Builder only knew how much of the city had already been engulfed in fighting. He was just debating whether it would be better to climb up on the roof and try to get in through one of the clerestory windows or sneak down into the basement to look for unguarded passages, when a familiar accent tugged his attention. Someone was speaking la Langue.
Jean-Claude hurried toward the sound, hoping to catch some diplomat or a member of Isabelle’s Célestial entourage. Instead, he turned into a sitting room and all but barreled into Hugo du Blain coming the other direction. The ambassador was dressed all in traditional Célestial white with a bloodred shadow fanned out on the floor behind him, as gaudy as a peacock’s tail.
Jean-Claude made a hasty bow. “Your Excellency,” he said with all the humility his sweeping hat brim could scrape up off the carpet.
The man backed up a step in surprise, and his bloodshadow rippled. A small crowd of finely dressed people in the room beyond all paused their conversations to watch this encounter.
“Monsieur musketeer,” du Blain said in a sour tone. “I am surprised to see you here.”
“Did you think me dead or fled?” Jean-Claude said. “No, just give me the odds and tell me where I can place a wager. Better yet, come with me, and I will give you such news as flummoxes all expectations.”
As Jean-Claude swept his hat up to replace it on his head, he curled his pinky under the brim, exposing his three other fingers like the tines of the crown, the court sign for royal business.
The ambassador stepped from the room and allowed Jean-Claude to shut the door before speaking in a low tone. “And what makes you think His Most Royal Majesty wants to hear anything you have to say, after the bungle you have made of your duties?”
Jean-Claude had to take that one on the chin; he had no doubt le roi was furious with him. Indeed, Jean-Claude would be lucky to escape a royal audience with his life, his shadow, or his soul. Yet no matter his own future, the fate of kingdoms weighed in the balance, and Isabelle’s future with it.
“Do not mistake the messenger for the message,” Jean-Claude said. “Grand Leon will want to hear what I have to say.”
“Certainly, but it will have to wait until after Príncipe Alejandro’s trial. Not that it will be an extended affair. He was caught bloody-handed after murdering his father. I imagine the Sacred Hundred will find him guilty in short order.”
Jean-Claude’s pulse galloped. “This cannot wait. Besides which, Alejandro is innocent.”
Du Blain shook his head. “But this is the outcome His Majesty wants.”
“No, this is the best outcome His Majesty thinks he can get,” Jean-Claude said. “I can offer him a better one, but only if we act quickly.”
Du Blain asked, “What is this news, then?”
For this Jean-Claude was prepared. “I report to him, from my lips to his ears. Whether he wants to hear what I have to say is for him to decide.”
Reluctantly, du Blain conceded this. He led Jean-Claude to a waiting room and then shoved off to inform His Imperial Majesty of his petitioner.
Jean-Claude reflexively straightened his borrowed tunic. Dread churned his gut. Would Grand Leon even come? Surely he would want to hear what Jean-Claude had to say, unless he felt that the report of one who had bungled so badly was not worth hearing.
A reddening of the ambient light drew Jean-Claude’s attention. The room’s ordinary shadows rippled and parted as a great crimson shadow spilled through the doorway, spreading along the walls, ceiling, and floor, oozing into recesses and flowing over furniture, tinting everything the color of fresh blood.
The crimson stain brushed up against Jean-Claude’s shadow. It tugged at his outline on the floor, pulling it into new shape. Like a marionette guided by some godlike puppeteer, Jean-Claude’s body twitched to attention and stuck there despite the pain it caused in his thigh.
Grand Leon’s sorcerous puissance was undiminished even when he was inhabiting several different vessels at once. And this one’s not even in the room yet. He can’t even see me.
For a dozen heartbeats, Jean-Claude contemplated his helplessness and how far Grand Leon’s anger
must have extended that he had seen fit to drive this point home. Would he even give Jean-Claude a chance to explain about Isabelle’s survival, to make his case for thwarting Margareta, or would this shadow simply rip his mind and soul to pieces? It would be Grand Leon’s style to turn Jean-Claude into a bloodhollow as a warning to other privileged servants who might fail him.
Grand Leon’s emissary strolled into the room, his skinny frame and wraithlike flesh swollen with Grand Leon’s unmistakable presence. The crimson shadows grew heavier and thicker as he approached, taking on an oily sheen that obscured the distinctive shapes of the furniture and gave the whole room the aspect of a great mouth wherein the emissary was a pale, white tongue.
Jean-Claude needed to get his main point out before Grand Leon started harrowing his soul, so he blurted, “Princess Isabelle is alive, and I have located her.”
Grand Leon did not appear to hear Jean-Claude’s announcement. He walked almost past Jean-Claude, so that, with his head clamped in a forward-facing position, he could only glimpse the side of the king’s face, enough to know that Grand Leon was not looking at him.
Grand Leon’s voice was casual but cold. “Those are good tidings, but how, pray tell, did you lose her to begin with?”
Jean-Claude had been kicking himself with that very question for the last several days, always without an answer to satisfy his heart. Somehow, it was easier to defend himself to le roi. “By treachery and betrayal. Kantelvar assassinated Vincent, tried to murder me, and stole her away.”
Grand Leon walked to a point directly behind Jean-Claude. The bloodshadow deadened his footfalls to mere ghostly whispers. He stopped and held his silence for long enough that Jean-Claude’s shoulder blades started twitching with anticipation of a knife … not that Grand Leon would ever resort to such crude murder. Clearly this display was meant to frighten Jean-Claude and put him in his place. It was working.