If anyone else had done this to him, he would have been furious, but Grand Leon had made him, had given him everything, including his duty to Isabelle. If anyone had the right to judge him … “Kantelvar arranged this marriage,” Grand Leon said. “Why would he sabotage it?”
Why indeed? Jean-Claude still didn’t know why the damned artifex had set up this game of knives and shadows.
Jean-Claude said, “His plans were deeply laid, Your Majesty. They began at least twenty-four years ago, because they were already in motion at the hour of Princess Isabelle’s birth…”
Jean-Claude told him everything he knew or suspected of Kantelvar’s plan, Vincent’s killing, Margareta’s plot, Príncipe Julio’s and DuJournal’s identities, Don Amerigo’s assistance, and Duque Diego’s murder. Grand Leon interrupted only to ask for clarification of key points.
“And that is how I came to be here,” Jean-Claude concluded.
“Interesting,” Grand Leon said, and, to Jean-Claude’s surprise, the red shadow withdrew. It shrank to a small puddle around le roi’s feet. “You have been a very busy man indeed. You have learned more about Aragothic intrigue in a week than my most diligent ambassador has told me in a year. Face me.”
Jean-Claude turned in place. His leg pained him and he was still woozy from his encounter with the bloodshadow, but he managed not to fall flat on his face when he made a leg and swept his hat for his master.
“Majesty.”
The king’s presence, pressing through the emissary’s glassy face, was thoughtful. “You failed to protect Princess Isabelle, as was your sworn duty.”
Every time someone reminded him of that, it was like having a knife twisted in his ribs. “Yes, Majesty.”
Grand Leon said, “But your remarkable persistence in trying to rectify your error has extracted an ember of opportunity from the ashes of catastrophe. The only question is whether I dare trust you to fetch that spark without snuffing it.”
Jean-Claude heard the question in that statement and rose to answer it. “That depends on whether Your Majesty questions my competence or my loyalty.”
Le roi nodded gravely. “No disloyal man would have dared face us, and we deem that your skills are merely tarnished, not rusted through. A good polish should have them sparkling like new again.”
In other words, if he got this right, he would be forgiven. “Shall I carry on then, Majesty?”
Le roi nodded gravely. “Get yourself to the dockyard. When the ship bearing Isabelle and the real Príncipe Julio returns, take them to our embassy and to no other place. Make sure they are not seen.”
“Of course,” Jean-Claude said, his mind bolting to the mission before considering all the ramifications. “But what about Margareta and Príncipe Alejandro?”
“Alejandro was found standing over King Carlemmo’s body. He appears guilty, or at least blamable. He will be found guilty regardless of the truth. Fortunately, this injustice may be put to good use. His legal assassination at Margareta’s hand clears the way for Isabelle to be the next queen of Aragoth.”
The sickness of betrayal settled in Jean-Claude’s heart. Alejandro had saved Jean-Claude’s life at least twice. To abandon him without a fight was poor recompense, but Jean-Claude could not force the Grand Leon to act on Alejandro’s behalf, and he was in no position to ask for a favor, especially when the fate of empires was on the line.
A distant mortar boomed. Plaster dust from the ceiling drifted down.
Jean-Claude bowed, took three steps back, but couldn’t bring himself to leave just yet. “Majesty, in the interest of clarity, Isabelle told me you wanted her to prevent a war.”
“Alejandro’s death should prevent the outbreak of a general war. Who, after all, would his supporters put on the throne? Isabelle’s marriage to the heir will help secure that peace.”
“And how do you intend to circumvent Margareta?” Surely Grand Leon wanted Isabelle to be the primary woman behind the throne.
The king’s phantom brows drew down very slightly. “If she becomes a threat, surely Princess Isabelle’s most loyal guardian can remove her.”
“Of course, Majesty.” Jean-Claude made a humble obeisance in self-defense and took himself out of the drawing room–cum–audience hall before Grand Leon’s infamous temper roiled up. His mind buzzed with the implications of Grand Leon’s plan. Alejandro would have to die. Clìmacio would have to be exposed and Julio put in his place … wouldn’t he?
Jean-Claude stopped, as stunned as if he’d been shot, as the king’s plan unfolded itself in his mind. Merde! Grand Leon intended to keep Clìmacio on the throne. He would kidnap the real Julio and use the threat of revealing him as leverage against the false king. In one swift move he would make himself the power behind the throne in Aragoth.
Jean-Claude would have laughed out loud. He would have marveled at the sinister beauty of it … except that le roi clearly meant to use Isabelle as the public face of his private conquest, the linchpin for his ambition. The stage on which her life played out would literally be wiped clean of every decent soul, of anyone Isabelle might befriend or trust. Her marriage would be based on blackmail. Her decisions would all be hostage to the necessity of maintaining her grip on people who would stop at nothing to turn the tables on her.
Jean-Claude resumed his march, falling into the familiar rhythm of the mission even as his mind boiled with dread. Did Grand Leon actually imagine he could control Margareta’s power lust? The blackmail le roi proposed, or rather that Jean-Claude deduced, would drive her frothing mad, and the easiest way for her to strike back would be through Isabelle.
Jean-Claude’s heart felt as if it were being torn in two. He could not let this pass, and yet he could not betray his master, either. Le roi had lifted him up from peasant stock and given him such authority and status as to confound the high and mighty. True, authority had turned out to be more of a mixed blessing than he’d anticipated, but he had ever been proud to don his blue-and-whites and thwart threats to l’Empire in Grand Leon’s name.
So would he fail his princess or his king? Did he have a choice? It wasn’t as if he would refuse to fetch Isabelle from the docks. Perhaps Julio could be killed while attempting to escape, but that would still leave Isabelle marrying Clìmacio.
“Señor musketeer,” came a voice from behind him.
Jean-Claude turned. There in the servants’ corridor stood Thornscar, Príncipe Julio marked by a long scar that ran from brow to cheek. Even without the scar there would have been no way to mistake this man for the cringing creature that clung like a stain to Margareta’s skirt. His erect posture and squared shoulders made a kingly tabard of his ripped and bloody monk’s habit, and his silver eyes gleamed like the edge of a blade.
“Príncipe Julio, I deduce,” Jean-Claude said, even as his mind lifted into a gallop. If Julio was here … “Where is Princess Isabelle?”
“Safe for now, on a reef in the upper sky four days’ sail from here. She bids me give a message to her faithful musketeer, Jean-Claude. She says she is safe, sound, secure, and several synonyms starting with ‘S.’”
“What?” Jean-Claude stiffened to hear Isabelle’s private speech uttered from Julio’s lips.
Julio said, “She’s also fine, feisty, fabulous, and fierce if that helps.”
Jean-Claude’s heart lifted like a balloon; that was Isabelle, no doubt. “She told you to tell me that?”
“She suggested it might stop you from killing me and wasting all the hard work she did rescuing me and saving my life.”
“She rescued you?” Jean-Claude asked, cackling gleefully in his heart. Yes. Yes. Yes. That was his Isabelle.
“Yes, and she has charged me with putting an end to Kantelvar’s war.”
Questions piled up faster that Jean-Claude could voice them. “Did she have a plan for this? And where is Kantelvar?”
“He is dead, or at least incapacitated. It’s hard to tell. But the plan was for her to give me control of l’Empire’s armies and with
it force Alejandro … my brothers to parley.”
Jean-Claude nodded. Yes, that’s the way Isabelle would think. “That’s not going to work now. Carlemmo is dead; Margareta has captured Alejandro and accused him of regicide. I’d wager my balls he’ll be convicted within the hour.”
Julio took a step back, his regal expression warped in dismay. “Padre de Santos.”
“It gets worse. Grand Leon plans to let Alejandro be killed so that Clìmacio can take over without shedding any additional blood.” Time to leave out the bit about holding the real Julio hostage.
“Is he mad? Alejandro’s supporters know they will get no mercy from Margareta. If he dies, they fight to the death.”
“What if Alejandro orders them not to fight?”
“Why would he do that?”
“Because Margareta put Xaviera in the Hellshard.”
Julio turned green. “That would do it. Alejandro would do anything for her.”
“It will be for nothing, though. Margareta will kill them both.”
Julio’s hand balled into a fist. “I must get in there. Members of the Sacred Hundred can only be charged with a crime by someone of equal or greater rank. That means Alejandro could only have been charged by Clìmacio, who everyone thinks is me, or Margareta. If I can present myself as an alternative to Clìmacio, the Hundred may doubt the legitimacy of the charges and nullify the trials.”
“You’re assuming anyone in that room gives a fig about what’s true.” In Jean-Claude’s experience men seeking power only acknowledged fact insofar as it supported their ambitions.
“Alejandro is the rightful heir and the best man for the job. If he dies Aragoth will shatter and we won’t see peace for a century.” In a voice of resolute conviction he added, “He’s also my brother. I have to try.”
“Pardon the obvious question, but it’s called the Hall of Mirrors and you are a Glasswalker—”
Julio shook his head. “The speculis loci in the Hall of Mirrors are all warded. Any Glasswalker can use them for egress, but only those who are keyed to them can use them for ingress, and Margareta has interdicted me. I could likely break her wards, but it would attract attention and I’d be mobbed by her guards before I ever breached that side of the mirror.”
“So all I have to do is get you into the Hall of Mirrors, and Alejandro’s trial is off?” Jean-Claude’s pulse quickened at the ever-so-quaint sensation of having a fixed and solid target.
“Perhaps, perhaps not, but it is the only chance we have.”
Jean-Claude grinned as an idea bloomed. “Can you fetch Isabelle’s espejismo here? Meanwhile, I will make my way into the Hall of Mirrors to announce her arrival. Grand Leon will send out an honor guard to bring her in, and you will enter under her aegis.”
Julio blanched. “Señor, I cannot bring her. I used water as a mirror. I have only ever done that twice and never as a mirror guide—”
“Is there any danger in trying?” Jean-Claude asked. He could not endanger Isabelle, not for the sake of all kingdoms. “What would happen if you failed?”
“It would…” Julio caught himself and took a moment to answer. “When a mirror passage fails, the glass may shatter; sometimes it destroys the reflection. Water would splash; the ripples might tear her apart.”
Jean-Claude’s heart twisted at the thought of risking Isabelle, but abandoning her to the scheme he suspected le roi of harboring was even more unthinkable. “Do you have a better plan?”
Julio shook his head. “My not having a better plan does not make this one viable. Isabelle saved my life. I would not repay her by scattering her espejismo through the Argentwash.”
Jean-Claude regarded him seriously. “Do you imagine she would be unwilling to take that risk? Trust to her competence and courage. Whether it be attacking an entrenched position or trusting a stranger’s word, whether it be taking up the sword or setting it aside, a man’s battle is fought when he does the thing he most fears to do.”
Julio’s visage was somber, his silver eyes dark. “Or putting the fate of his whole kingdom in the hands of a foreign power’s most devious operative?”
“Or trusting a foreign sorcerer he has traded blows with to conduct his beloved princess across a dangerous threshold into a potential bloodbath,” Jean-Claude said.
Julio raised two fingers to his temple in acknowledgment of the point.
Jean-Claude said, “Go then, and make it quick. Make it fifteen minutes.”
“That’s extremely tight timing. Traversing the Argentwash is not instantaneous.”
“As fast as you can, then.”
Julio said, “We will arrive at the mirrors in the Spindle. It’s an old ceremonial tower just outside the palace grounds.” He turned and loped into the dusty dark, leaving Jean-Claude to hustle toward the Hall of Mirrors. When Grand Leon had chased him out of the audience chamber earlier, he’d at least had the wit to exit through the royal wing, so he was in the right neighborhood. Now there was no more time for subtlety. He had to go in by the most direct route, before Julio returned, before Margareta killed Alejandro.
He still needed a ploy. There was no way even the most slack-witted guard would let Jean-Claude the musketeer anywhere near that room, so he would have to be someone else. Fortunately, he was already out of uniform. He sliced his left hand with his knife, smeared fresh blood on his face, rubbed some on his clothes, and shredded any cloth that wasn’t already stained. Reluctantly, he discarded his weapons as inappropriate baggage for the role he was about to play.
There were only two manners by which to enter a noble’s court if one wanted a sympathetic audience. The first was to be immaculate, polished, groomed up like a show horse, and dressed in clothes that were good for nothing but standing around. Then one could spend hours making small talk, gently stirring the simmering cauldron of noble favor, hoping for a sip … Or one could barge in looking like a messenger from the front, the sort of man who would have nothing less important to say than “The barbarians are at the gate!”
It was traditional for the grubby messenger to die after delivering his message, and Jean-Claude reasoned he was not likely to disappoint on that score. Grand Leon would be furious with him. After what he planned, Jean-Claude would be lucky indeed merely to end up a bloodhollow, but if that was what it took to give Isabelle a chance at a world worth living in … certainly men had suffered more for less.
He wondered if the shackle-rattling torturers of the damned would, upon admitting his soul to the Halls of Torment, at least give him points for style.
Jean-Claude hobbled into a corridor adjacent to the Hall of Mirrors. Five guards barred his way. They wore the royal family’s crimson-and-black livery. No doubt they had orders to kill Jean-Claude on sight, albeit with the significant disadvantage that they didn’t know what he looked like, especially not out of uniform and covered in blood and muck.
The guards caught sight of him and hefted their weapons.
Smiling inside, Jean-Claude staggered toward his audience, waving his hands frantically. “Señors, help! Help, someone is trying to kill Queen Margareta!”
CHAPTER
Twenty-two
Isabelle sent Gretl to fetch food and find out what the other denizens of this aerie were up to. Gretl did not seem to think that any of them would be disappointed by their master’s defeat, but it would be foolish not to inquire.
Alone, Isabelle limped around the circumference of the cistern-room pool to keep her bruised and battered body from seizing up. Her mind insisted on parading for her every foolish thing she’d done since meeting Kantelvar. She revisited every missed clue, every double meaning and disconnected reference, every way she could have averted this predicament if only she hadn’t been blinded by her desire to help Marie and her hope to please her ersatz in-laws. If only she had been paying closer attention. “If only” was the worst phrase in any language.
It was all out of her hands now, the fate of her chosen family, the peace of the world.
&nbs
p; She nearly jumped out of her skin when Julio twitched and sat up with a gasp.
“Isabelle,” he said.
She hurried toward him, thankful he was alive. “What news? Are you hurt? What’s going on in San Augustus? Did you bring a ship?” Surely he hadn’t had time to fetch a ship, but then again, her personal sense of time was all out of joint. It might have been but an instant since he left her, or it might have been a century.
“There is a ship on the way, but we have no time for it. Your musketeer tells me Margareta has put Alejandro on trial for murdering Father.”
“Jean-Claude! He’s alive! Is he whole?” Thank the Builder and all the saints. Excitement brought energy to her limbs, and drove her aches and pains behind the curtain.
“He was when I left, but listen, the … things are even worse than I … than we feared. Fighting has already broken out in San Augustus. The city is on fire and Alejandro may be slain within the hour.”
Isabelle’s hand flew to her throat. Only too well could she imagine that magnificent city in flames, and what had become of Marie? “Wait. How is Alejandro to be slain? He wasn’t even in the city.”
“Apparently he was. How I don’t know, but Margareta has him and she claims he was caught bloody-handed murdering the king in his sleep. She has put him on trial for regicide.”
Isabelle knew almost nothing of Alejandro. “Is that possible?”
“Never!” Julio said with such vehemence that Isabelle recoiled from him. “Alejandro worshipped Father.”
“What about Xaviera?” The crown princesa had seemed competent and commanding, certainly not the type to sit idly by while her kingdom fell apart.
Julio’s fists clenched in agitation. “Margareta captured her and put her into the Hellshard. It will tear her soul to shreds.”
“How long can she last?” Were they already too late? She would not see that proud woman destroyed.
“It depends on the individual. Xaviera is strong but the Hellshard is old magic, quondam sorcery beyond our ken.”
“Can we save her?” Isabelle asked. Not a fair question, since she was stuck here. He’d be doing all the work and taking all the risk.
An Alchemy of Masques and Mirrors--A Novel Page 46