The Mystic Marriage

by Jones, Heather Rose

  The vicomtesse rattled off an assortment of names. It covered all the likely possibilities. “Of course you forbade me to speak to Sovitre or your cousin, which would come to the same thing.”

  “I would prefer,” Antuniet said more stiffly than she intended, “that you not refer to Baroness Saveze as my cousin. I rather doubt she acknowledges the relationship.”

  “But do you?”

  She shrugged. “Does it matter?” In truth, Baroness Saveze was a stranger to her. She had known Barbara No-name, her uncle’s ward, the strange, intense child always keeping quiet in the shadows. And she had known the ruthlessly competent duelist she had become, always at her uncle’s side, and after his death left along with the rest of his property to the Sovitre girl. But Barbara Lumbeirt—revealed as her uncle’s bastard daughter, the one granted his title after Estefen’s disgrace and execution—that latest Barbara was a stranger to her and she was more than a little frightened of her.

  De Cherdillac had been speaking again, mentioning those she still planned to approach. “Don’t bother,” Antuniet said abruptly. “I can see it was a foolish hope. There are other roads, they’re merely slower.” And had more hazards, but that was no one else’s concern. “I thank you for your efforts on my behalf.”

  She rose, but the vicomtesse protested, “Surely you aren’t leaving yet? I’d hoped for a longer visit once business was out of the way.”

  “Mesnera de Cherdillac,” Antuniet said tiredly, “I have work to do in the morning. Business is never out of the way.” She curtseyed formally, giving the other no choice but to return the gesture and see her to the door. But at the last, she turned and said, “Thank you for letting me forget, for a few hours at least.”

  * * *

  She dreamed again that night. The sort of dream that had haunted her since the flight from Prague. Dark spaces, locked doors, and beneath it all her mother’s insistent voice: What do you have to show for yourself? Is that all? You could have made a good match if you’d tried at all. Instead you waste your time with books and mystic nonsense. But a good match would have done nothing for the Chazillen name now. Marriage would only have provided an excuse to turn her back on the family disgrace. It was the alchemy that was their chance at redemption, but only if she could scrape together enough money to begin again.

  The immediate problem had been to find some students. In Heidelberg she’d had the small advantage of being an exotic curiosity. In Rotenek she was merely an embarrassment, but at least she knew her ground. The university district had been her second home for years, and she knew its rhythms and gathering places. She had found some work already—enough to put a roof over her head. It would never be enough to support the Great Work, but there were those she knew who dealt in money for the right return. She remembered Estefen’s fury over his debts and one name more than others on his lips: Langal. None of Estefen’s rages had suggested that the man cut more than the usual corners in his financial dealings or that he would cheat anyone who didn’t deserve to be cheated or that the subject of alchemy would deter him. Estefen had raged at anyone who came between him and what he wanted. Oh, not always outwardly, but rage had driven him all the same and that had been his downfall. Watching him, Antuniet had vowed never to let love or hatred cloud her sight. Only once had she allowed herself the luxury of hatred. At the end of that long, dark night full of death, on the last occasion when she had come face-to-face with Margerit Sovitre, she had let it spill over. This time you have blood on your hands; this time I do hate you. No, she would not go beg anything from Sovitre, not when two deaths stood between them.

  As with de Cherdillac, Langal lived in a part of the city where Antuniet’s shabby clothing marked her out more strongly than the fact that she traveled on foot. The difference was that his neighbors were quite accustomed to seeing him receive visitors whom fortune had treated badly. She knocked boldly on the front door at an hour far too early for social visits but quite acceptable for business. The man who opened it to her had too much of the ruffian about him to be a footman and not enough crisp professionalism to be an armin. In addition to combining the duties of reception and security, he seemed to have sufficient authority to assess her name and person and instruct her to follow him without further consultation. He preceded her into Langal’s office, announcing, “Mesnera Antuniet Chazillen to see you.”

  Langal looked up and removed a small pair of spectacles, gazing at her from under bushy eyebrows with a face that gave away nothing except in the length of the silence that hung between them. At last he addressed her escort, “I believe you have been misinformed. This is Maisetra Antuniet Chazillen.”

  Antuniet struggled to match his bland demeanor. It would have come to this sooner or later. The vicomtesse might be too polite to take notice, but it was to Langal’s advantage to point out that she no longer enjoyed the rights and privileges of the nobility. They stood at the same social level now. The taint her brother had brought on the Chazillens had stripped her of all her birthrights. The courtesies of address and title were the very least of it, but she still felt it as a slap in the face.

  “As you say, Maistir Langal,” she said with a formal curtsey. “The world has turned.”

  “And turning, it brings you to me. I’m trying to imagine what possible use I could be to you.”

  There was a chair placed facing him and she settled herself in it without waiting for permission. There was a fine line to be trod between confidence and arrogance. “I am engaged in a certain project.” She weighed how deeply to delve into the details, but complete vagueness seemed unlikely to bring him to the table. “An alchemical project. I have had some small initial success.” No need to mention all the failures since then. “And the results will produce both wealth and influence.” She reached into her purse and drew out a knotted cloth. Unfastened, it revealed a blood-red carnelian, the only one of the gems worth keeping that was still in her possession. The rest had been lost in the flight from Prague. But if it were true to its nature, it would bring her what she needed. He picked it up between a stubby thumb and forefinger and examined it with the same bland expression as before. She watched for any sign that the stone affected him, but as his face still gave nothing away, she continued, “In my present situation the work goes slowly and I find myself short of patience. I need a workshop, equipment, supplies and perhaps an assistant or two.”

  Langal frowned and dropped the gem back onto the cloth. “The last time someone tried to pay me in alchemical gold it was nothing but gilded copper. He swore it was an instability in the transformation and that it had been pure gold when he gave it to me, but it came to the same thing. I have no interest in being made a fool when I try to sell cut glass and rock crystal. And this—” He nudged the stone where it lay. “Don’t insult me by trying to pass it off as ruby.”

  If he hadn’t the wit to look beyond glittering jewelry…“The stone’s value lies in other properties than the obvious,” Antuniet returned evenly.

  “Oh, no doubt. I’m sure you can produce some clever conjuror’s trick to convince me of its power. But what of the ones you plan to give me in payment? I’m no infant in the world. I’ve seen all the tricks before. But in any event, you seem to be misinformed as to my trade. I’m not a moneylender.”

  Antuniet blinked at him. The man’s reputation was known to all. What was the point in denying it?

  “Ah, I see your confusion,” he said. His thin lips failed to manage a smile despite the amusement in his voice. “I’m not a moneylender, I only broker existing debts. I have, on occasion, been known to venture a mortgage or two. But the true profit lies in relieving amateurs of the burden of collecting on the notes they’ve been so imprudent as to accept. If some other person were unwise enough to extend you credit, that debt might find its way into my hands. But no, I have no interest in investing in your little alchemical charade.”

  “My brother Estefen—”

  “Yes, your brother. Shall we discuss your brother? I made the
mistake of holding his notes and he, at least, had expectations. What do you have? Would that cousin of yours be willing to stand surety for payment? Ah, but no. If she were, you wouldn’t be here talking to me, would you?” He leaned forward across the desk with a pugnacious scowl. “Here’s my offer: pledge yourself to pay back your brother’s notes and I will undertake to find you an investor.”

  For one brief moment she considered it. But no, that road led nowhere but ruin. Better to build up slowly from her tutoring fees. It might take years to come back to the starting place she’d had in Heidelberg, but she could make it work. She rose and said, “I do apologize for wasting your time, Maistir Langal.”

  But when she reached to tie the stone back up in its cloth, he stopped her and picked it up to examine again. She held her breath, watching for signs that the amulet was working its influence.

  His face settled back into a thoughtful look. “Alchemy, you say? There’s a possibility that occurs to me. I give the advice freely because I’m in a strangely generous mood and it takes nothing out of my pocket. And perhaps because I admire you for being too sensible to accept my offer. In this business one hears things. One never knows when information might become valuable. I will tell you only that if you went and talked to Monterrez, the goldsmith on Zempol Street, you might hear something to your advantage.”

  Antuniet recoiled. “I’m not that desperate yet,” she said, retrieving the gem from him and tying it up securely.

  “Truly?" Langal asked in amusement. “Now how might I have taken the impression that you were? But Monterrez isn’t a moneylender either, if that’s what concerns you. Not in the ordinary way of things. He…let’s say that I think he might be interested in your project for his own reasons.”

  * * *

  If she had any other prospects, Antuniet would have discarded the suggestion as one more cruel joke. But without making any conscious decision, she followed a path back to her room in the university district that bent to take in the neighborhood centered around Zempol Street.

  The shop gave little indication of its trade, only a counter overseen by a serious young man and a half-finished project lying on a table behind him among tools for polishing and delicate repairs. No doubt the wares were brought out only for customers. The man at the counter was too young to be the owner of the shop and Antuniet briefly wondered if she had come to the right place. “I’m looking for Maistir Monterrez,” she said.

  He might be young but he seemed to have evaluated her in a single glance. “Perhaps the Maisetra has some jewelry to sell?”

  The jewelry had gone long before the gowns had. “I have a business matter to discuss with him.”

  The man pursed his lips and regarded her carefully. Then, without letting her leave his sight, he stepped back to a doorway and called out something rapidly that Antuniet couldn’t follow. A woman’s voice answered and he nodded at the response. “He will be with you shortly, if you’re able to wait,” he told her.

  Antuniet said nothing, only stepped to one side as another customer came and went. The goldsmith emerged a few minutes later, looking as though he had hastily traded his work apron for coat and neckcloth, for there was a smudge of jeweler’s rouge on one cuff. Evidently the summons had conveyed the information that there was no need to fetch a fresh shirt and don a hat. “How may I assist you?”

  Antuniet had considered and discarded several approaches and in the end she simply brought out her one perfect gem and offered it to him to examine. He sent a sharp glance at his assistant, as if to reproach him for disturbing his work for a simple appraisal, but then he took the stone over to the window and peered at it more closely, drawing out a small glass to assist him. A frown furrowed his broad, balding forehead. It wasn’t the admiration of a work of art but the consideration of a puzzle.

  “Where did you get this?” he asked at last.

  “I made it,” Antuniet replied.

  He looked up at her expectantly and she felt her way toward her question. She risked revealing more than she ever had previously. “I was told you might…that is, your name was suggested to me…I…I have been working with certain properties of stones and how to create and enhance them. I created that one in Prague.” That would mean something to him, perhaps. “There were others, but I lost them. I want to set up a workshop here in Rotenek. But I need…” She shrugged. “I need everything. I was told it might be useful to speak to you, but not why. I can offer no security, no bond except my word. I—”

  He held up his hand to stem the flailing. “You made this?” he asked. And then, more pointedly, “You made this.” And again, “You made this, you were not simply working with a natural stone?”

  She nodded.

  “If I may ask, whom did you study under?”

  “Rutufin, here in Rotenek, and then Vitali in Prague. But the stone, that was my own work. I found…” No, she didn’t want to reveal too much. “I found some hints and formulas in an old book. Some of the techniques of DeBoodt.”

  That clearly did mean something to him. “I see. I think I know why you were sent in my direction, but forgive me…ah…Maisetra? I believe I missed your name.”

  “Chazillen. Antuniet Chazillen.”

  She saw recognition in his eyes for the name at least. He returned the gem, saying, “I need to think on this matter carefully. Could you return in the morning?”

  What matter? He didn’t seem to be speaking only of business affairs. But at least Langal’s hint hadn’t led to a solid wall. She nodded and left.

  * * *

  On her second visit to the goldsmith’s shop, her host was more formally attired and she was led into a small parlor behind the store proper. Not a part of the residence, but no doubt a place where favored customers might be entertained in privacy. She was offered a seat but no refreshment. She had gone outside the limits of her ability to read such signs.

  He began with little preamble. “Maisetra—you will forgive me?” From the hesitation it was clear that he had acquainted himself with her history and with her fall in status. She nodded in acceptance. A few more repetitions and the burfro title would cease to sting.

  “Maisetra Chazillen, I have a daughter. God help me, I have four daughters. It was the husband of my eldest you met in the shop.”

  It was a mystery why she was being treated to this familial explanation, but Antuniet settled her mind to patience. She tried to look interested.

  “My youngest but one, she has long had a mind to study alchemy, like you. Ordinarily it would be out of the question, of course, but…four daughters! What is one to do? Perhaps it might be best to give her a means of making her own way in the world, if the need arises, and if she has the talent and the interest. And an alchemist in the family could be useful. But there are difficulties, as I’m sure you know. I have done what I could and she has studied what she may, but looking forward, the usual roads are barred to her.”

  “The university allows…” Antuniet’s thought trailed off. They lived in entirely different worlds. Did the university allow women of her sort…? Her own studies had been hard enough back then—piecing together scraps of philosophy and chemistry—until Rutufin could be convinced to take her on. How much more difficult…

  He had watched her closely as she worked through the problem. “Whatever the university may allow,” he said, “I cannot allow it. In my own home, in our own community, I have respect. I can protect my daughter as I should. But outside that? If she ventures so far outside what is considered proper for her? There are too many men who would consider that she had stepped outside the protections of modesty and respectability.”

  And that was even before one came to the question of alchemy. An absurd possibility was presenting itself. Antuniet stilled her impatience and asked, “And what would all this have to do with me?”

  “If you would contract to take my Anna on as an apprentice—to teach her all the skills and secrets she would need to become a mistress of the art—I will arrange to provide
the place and the materials and whatever else is necessary for it.”

  Was it possible? That he had the resources was clear from looking around. His custom must be drawn from the elite of society to maintain this style. But an apprentice? She could only imagine the burdens of shepherding the pampered daughter of a goldsmith through the rigors of the art, even merely as a student. How much success would he require to fulfill the bargain? If it were the only way…“Perhaps I should meet her before deciding.”

  “Of course,” he said and went to the door to call, “Anna, come here.”

  From the rapidness with which she appeared it was clear the girl had been waiting on the other side.

  Antuniet’s first reaction was dismay. She’s too old; it’s too late. She needed to have started years ago! But then she realized it was an illusion of the girl’s height, the soberness of her clothing and the way her dark hair was braided up in a crown under a cap more suited to a matron than a young girl. Her eyes, staring from under delicately arched brows—they spoke more truly, with a mixture of shy deference and hopeful expectation. She dipped in a formal curtsey and Antuniet rose to meet her, asking abruptly, “What is your age?”

  “I have fourteen years, Maisetra,” she answered softly but with confidence.

  “And what ancient languages have you studied? Latin? Greek?”

  She nodded. “I have some.” It was hard to know whether that was modesty or a deficiency. “And Hebrew, of course.”

  “Modern languages?” Antuniet continued. The usual assortment in smatterings. “Mathematics? Astronomy? Chemistry?” Her answers gave a patchwork picture. Well, that wasn’t at all unusual given her background. Margerit Sovitre had been the same, delving deeply into what interested her and touching barely on what didn’t. The deficiencies could be made up if she were willing to work.