The Mirador

by Sarah Monette

  And the bitch of it was, it didn’t even work. I still had to live with my shitty decisions. I was still me.

  So maybe I’d better make that somebody I could stand to live with.

  But life don’t stop just ’cause you’ve decided to make big changes. I still had to show up for court with Felix the next morning, like I did every morning. We weren’t talking to each other after what I’d said on Troisième. On Quatrième, he hadn’t so much as looked at me, although I couldn’t quite figure whether it was because he was mad at me or because he was afraid I was mad at him. Today, he wouldn’t look me in the eye, but when the Lord Protector dismissed the court and people started moving, he hung back long enough to say, “You can come back to the suite if you want.” And then he swanned out before I’d figured out how to answer him. Which was probably for the best, all things considered. I didn’t know if it meant that he’d taken in any of what I’d said, but at least he’d forgiven me for saying it.

  Mehitabel

  Today we began full dress rehearsals; the premiere of Edith Pelpheria was only two days away. All that afternoon, there was no room in my head for anything but Edith, and as always, that was a blessing.

  I did notice that we had an audience again, sitting in the same seat Danny Charlock had chosen last time. Gordeny saw him, too; I could tell by the way she abruptly stopped looking past the edge of the stage.

  No business of mine, I reminded myself when I was offstage again, and managed to believe it for the rest of rehearsal and while listening to Jean-Soleil’s barbed commentary.

  But as soon as Jean-Soleil was done, Gordeny went flying off the stage; I knew she was racing through the maze of backstage corridors to the stage-lobby, where she was most likely going to tear strips out of the hapless Danny Charlock. And I was following her—though more slowly and with a plausible excuse. I did, after all, have a right to check my pigeonhole.

  Sure enough, when I came through the stage-lobby door, there were Gordeny and Danny Charlock. They both swung around as the door opened, and whatever they’d been saying was lost.

  “Miss,” said Danny politely, with a bob of the head.

  “She’s Mehitabel Parr, numbnuts,” Gordeny hissed. “Ain’t you heard of her?”

  I couldn’t tell from Danny’s abashed expression whether he had, and had never expected me to be so plain, or he hadn’t, and had no idea of who I was or why he ought to be impressed by me.

  “Don’t mind me,” I said and crossed to my pigeonhole, which actually did have something in it.

  “Tabby, tell Danny there ain’t nothing wrong with me being an actress,” Gordeny demanded.

  “Why should there be anything wrong with you being an actress? ” I looked at Gordeny, but she was looking at Danny. I raised my eyebrows at Danny.

  He was looking mulish. “It ain’t right.”

  “It ain’t none of your business,” Gordeny said. “Nobody’s died and made you king that I know of.”

  “Gordeny, I’m just saying—”

  “And I heard you say it the first time. And I know it ain’t you saying it anyways. You go on back, Danny, and tell Septimus Wilder that if he wants to say something to me, he should have the guts to come say it himself.”

  “Septimus didn’t send me,” Danny said, but a stone statue could’ve seen he was lying.

  “’Course Septimus sent you,” Gordeny said, with a toss of her head she must have copied off Corinna. “I ain’t so dumb I don’t know that. You tell him, Danny. Go on.”

  He went, slinking off like a scolded dog. I was still standing there, turning that sealed envelope over and over in my hands. Gordeny turned to me.

  “Don’t bother lying to me,” I said, not raising my head.

  “Tabby, I—”

  “Just don’t. And for the love of God watch your grammar,” I said waspishly and left her there.

  I recognized the crest sealing the envelope, and that alone was enough to make me uneasy. Why would Ivo Polydorius be writing to me?

  I could think of several answers to that question, none of them good. I opened the envelope reluctantly. Ivo Polydorius affected a peculiar green-black ink and highly ornate capitals.

  After the usual salutations, the letter read:

  It is very kind of you to take an interest in Vincent. Certainly your patronage can do him nothing but good in the Mirador’s eyes. I would be greatly pleased for Vincent to have access to wider society; in particular I feel that the circle of Lord Shannon Teverius would provide him with the cultural and philosophical discussions so sadly lacking at Arborstell. Anything you can do to effect an introduction to Lord Shannon for Vincent would be most appreciated by both of us, and I would of course do in return any favor which lies within my scope.

  Your most obedient servant,

  Ivo Polydorius

  Now that, I thought, was a very odd letter. I reread it in the hansom on the way to the Mirador, but found no enlightenment, and then set it aside, mentally as well as physically, to prepare for dinner with Stephen.

  Stephen and I dined alone that evening and spoke very little. I didn’t think he’d care about my worries—except the ones I was most emphatically not going to share with him; his preoccupations remained behind his stone face. But the silence was amiable—I didn’t feel, this time, like I was being tested.

  “Plans tonight, Mehitabel?” Stephen asked as we rose from the table.

  “A small social gathering,” I said lightly. “I’ve persuaded Felix to join me.”

  Stephen smiled; we’d be safe from interruptions from him. “Good. I won’t have to worry about him brooding on the battlements, then.”

  “Brooding on the battlements?”

  “His favorite pastime. I prefer it to pitching tantrums in the Hall of the Chimeras—which he has also done a time or two—but it makes me uneasy.”

  “Afraid he’ll jump?”

  Stephen snorted. “Hardly. Afraid he’ll amuse himself by pitching centimes over the edge. Or decide to go roof-walking and I’ll have to send the Protectorate Guard to get him down. Like a cat.”

  I laughed. Stephen wouldn’t hear it was fake; he’d never heard my real laugh. “I’ll come to you later.”

  “Good,” he said and kissed me. “I’ve got the bigger bed.”

  Felix

  I spent the afternoon alone with the Influence of the Moon. Clef had been right; I found Ynge’s theories both enlightening and provocative. Understanding Vincent’s odd gift in terms of a noirant sensitivity was suggesting some very intriguing possibilities—even more intriguing than I had originally imagined. We would see this evening if I was correct.

  It was ridiculous of me, but with Gideon and Mildmay gone—driven away—I found my suite too empty. I could not work there. I sat instead in the Archive of Crows, and the silent, disinterested scholars meant I did not have to be alone with myself. Ridiculous to feel the emptiness of my rooms like a killing weight. Ridiculous to find myself turning half a dozen times a day to say something to Mildmay. Ridiculous to feel, every time, a sharp, blinding pain like grief.

  So I stayed away from my rooms, except at night when I came back to toss restlessly, unsleeping, in my massive bed. I did not make the mistake of seeking out the Khloïdanikos again.

  Not a single wizard asked me where I was or what I was doing. They were probably just grateful I was somewhere else, where I didn’t have to be noticed or dealt with.

  That, too, was a lonely feeling, even though I knew with mathematical precision the exact degree to which it was my own fault.

  Which was to say, entirely.

  It astonished me how much I missed Mildmay. And it irked me because I could not fathom it. That Gideon’s absence should be painful, I understood—was even a little relieved by, for surely it showed there was a limit to my monstrosity. But why my silent, glowering, disapproving brother should feel so weirdly necessary . . .

  It is the obligation d’âme, I told myself firmly. But I knew I was lying.

/>   The truth was, he was right and I was wrong. We understood each other, needed each other, in a way that had nothing to do with the obligation d’âme and everything to do with our childhoods and my madness and the hurts he guarded and would not speak of. All the clever words in the world didn’t matter, all the barriers we put up against each other, turn and turn about. The obligation d’âme was not what bound us together; it was merely the manifestation of a much deeper, darker, wordless truth.

  I had denied that, again and again. I had mocked him, embarrassed him, reviled him, used him uncaringly in one and another of my petty little wars. Even after I had sworn I would not, I betrayed him—oh, in small ways, nothing like forcing him to murder a blood-wizard, so it was easy for me to ignore. It was amazing that his trust was all I had forfeited.

  How many times? I asked myself, leaning my hot face against the cool stone of the wall on my bad side. How many times are you going to have to learn this same, simple, stupid lesson?

  I didn’t have an answer.

  Mehitabel

  I couldn’t get back to my suite until eight, and when I did, Vincent was there, sitting in the chair nearest the fire. I sat down in the chair across from him and said, “I got a rather odd letter today. From Lord Ivo.”

  Vincent said nothing for a moment. “What does he want of you?”

  “Here.” I handed him the letter. As he read it, his face became stiller and stiller, until it was as lifeless as a mask. He handed the letter back, and I thought only his phenomenal self-control had kept him from throwing it into the fire.

  “What does he want?” I said.

  “To humiliate me,” Vincent said.

  I said nothing.

  “Oh, he’s right enough. I would like to meet Lord Shannon, and even more to meet Athalwolf Toralius, the poet, who I know is a friend of his. But introduced by you, with what I am so clearly marked”—and he spread his hands so that his long black nails gleamed in the firelight—“that defines me in ways which Ivo has no desire to allow me to escape.”

  “Shannon isn’t like that,” I said.

  “Maybe not,” Vincent said in polite disagreement.

  “What do you want me to do?”

  “As Ivo asks you, if you will. I am used to humiliation.”

  “I can tell Lord Ivo I have no influence with Shannon.”

  “No, he’ll know it for a lie.”

  “All right. But I’m doing it because you’ve asked me to, not because Lord Ivo did.”

  That got his beautiful smile. “Thank you, Mehitabel.”

  “Do you attend court?”

  “Yes, although well to the back. Ivo and Lord Stephen do not care for each other.”

  “Then catch me afterward. It will have to be quick, because I have to get to the Empyrean, but I can introduce you to Lord Shannon. But you know Felix won’t like it.”

  “That is far more Felix’s problem than mine.”

  I raised my eyebrows at the unexpected ruthlessness.

  “I am sorry,” he said. “I did not mean that as harshly as it sounded.” And he firmly turned the conversation to Athalwolf Toralius’s poetry. I’d read some of it over the winter, so we kept the conversation from flagging until Felix came, but I don’t think either of us had more than about half our mind on it. And Felix was preoccupied, frowning. His blue eye seemed cloudy with grief, but the yellow eye was sparking, dangerous.

  “What is it you want to try, Felix?” Vincent asked as we started for Grendille Moran’s suite.

  Felix shook himself a little. “Call it a practical application of rather abstruse theory.”

  “All right,” I said, “but what are you going to do?”

  “You don’t want the theory, do you?”

  “Not especially.”

  That got me about half a grin. “If it works, I’m going to make us—you and me—briefly able to see ghosts.”

  He didn’t seem to be kidding. “Maybe we’d better have some of that theory after all, sunshine.”

  He made an exasperated noise, halfway between a sigh and a snort. “All right. Imagine that magic has a kind of polarity, like a lodestone, and call the two poles noir and clair. Clairant magic is magic involved with life and light, with straightness and cleanliness. Noirant magic is the magic of labyrinths, of things that are tangled and lost and dark.”

  “And dead,” Vincent said, and Felix gave him an approving nod.

  “Exactly.”

  “But is any of this true?” I asked. “You said, ‘imagine.’ ”

  He grimaced. “It doesn’t work quite like that. Let’s say that it can be true.”

  “You’re the wizard,” I said lightly, to hide how uneasy the idea made me.

  “Magic is all about metaphors. In any event, one way to understand Vincent’s ability to see ghosts is as a . . .” He broke off, searching for a word. “. . . a receptiveness to certain manifestations of noirant energy. What I want to do is tap into Vincent’s ability—redirect the noirance, if that makes any sense—and—”

  “Could you make it stop?” Vincent’s voice was harsh, eager, maybe not quite sane.

  I saw Felix come back to the world, with a startle and a wince. “Vincent, this is just theoretical. I don’t even know if—”

  “But could you make it stop?”

  There was a pause, long enough that Felix’s answer was obvious before he spoke, and Vincent’s shoulders slumped fractionally. “Not without knowing what made it, er, start in the first place. And even then—it’s not something someone did to you, it’s something you were born with. It might be the equivalent of ripping out your eyes. Or your heart. And it would be gross heresy, of course.”

  He didn’t sound like that would bother him; I said, “Isn’t this heresy, what you’re doing here?”

  “Well, the trial would be interesting, let’s leave it at that. Tabby, are we not there yet?”

  Mocking plaintiveness. “Down this side-hall,” I said and waited a beat. “Brat.”

  I startled a laugh out of Vincent, and was glad to hear it; Felix just beamed at me beatifically. “I gather you have the key?”

  “Yes.” I unlocked the door with the key Leveque had given me. The hinges of the door did not squeak. I’d brought a lantern, and Felix’s witchlights were clustering around his head like tame stars. We went in.

  The suite had been stripped at some point, probably long ago. No hangings remained, no furniture, no carpet—nothing to give a sense of what Grendille Moran had been like alive. The rooms were dark and desolate and bone-cold; we explored them in a clump, with Felix’s witchlights darting and wheeling into the corners to get rid of the shadows. Then we returned to the first room, and Vincent said, resigned, “What do you want me to do?”

  Felix said, “Do you see anything?”

  “Traces,” Vincent said, with a half-shrug.

  “Good,” said Felix. “Then all I want you to do is relax and hold still.” He came up behind Vincent, the eight-inch difference in their heights emphasizing Vincent’s slightness, and placed his fingers against Vincent’s temples, his rings gleaming evilly against the blackness of Vincent’s hair. Vincent might have flinched a little, or it might just have been the cold in the room.

  At first it seemed only as if the shadows in the room were darkening, the air getting colder. But then I began to see patterns in the shadows, patterns that weren’t stone and cobwebs. They were inchoate as they emerged, things that might have been faces, might have been hands. They coalesced gradually, becoming clearer, and then Felix said, “Grendille Moran, are you there?”

  The pattern snapped closed, as if, until that moment, any one of a number of ghosts might have shown themselves and spoken to us. But now there was only one, a figure in an old-fashioned, narrow-skirted dress, her shoulders ending in a ragged stump, her head cradled in her hands, like any ghost out of a lurid folktale.

  She hadn’t been a beautiful woman when she was alive; her jaw was too heavy, her eyes too small. But she’d clea
rly been a woman with appalling force of character; the heavy jaw was almost balanced by the uncompromising line of her mouth, and those small, flat, gray eyes reminded me of the one time I had come face to face with a rattlesnake somewhere out in the Grasslands to the west of the Bastion.

  I am Grendille Moran, she said, although the lips of her severed head did not move, and I didn’t think her words were audible, exactly. What do you want of me?

  Vincent’s eyes were shut, but he had relaxed a little against Felix’s hands. Felix didn’t seem to have turned a hair. He said, “We are seeking the truth.”

  A dangerous pastime, Lord Wizard, she said. If a dead rattlesnake could be amused, she was. What truth do you seek?

  “The truth about Amaryllis Cordelia’s death.”

  The truth is that she is dead, as I am. What more do you need?

  “Who killed her?”

  I did.

  “Who put her in the crypt of the Cordelii?”

  The man who hired her death from me. It was the safest hiding place in all the Mirador.

  “Who had her stone engraved?”

  I did. That lying stone at Diggory Chase angered me. The stonecarver was dying. There was something growing inside him, a poisonous child. I gave him a quick and painless death, and in return he made sure that she would not be forgotten.

  “Why?”

  Because she belonged there, and the man who paid me to kill her knew it as well as I did. That, of course, was why he killed me.

  “What do you mean?”

  It was foolish of me, but I had not imagined that he would notice. Her lips quirked in something I was loath to label a smile. It did not occur to me that Wilfrid Emarthius would make pilgrimage to his victim’s tomb.

  “Who?” I said.

  The ghost’s eyes cut my direction, a dreadfully unnerving trick. Wilfrid Emarthius, Amaryllis’s husband. He had her killed, but he had the guts to kill me himself.

  “But why would Wilfrid want Amaryllis dead?” Felix asked.