by Carol Berg
“Touch this again, peacock,” said Dante in the quiet manner that shivered my toes, “and it will burn a hole straight through this dainty flesh.” The mage tightened his grip on the carved stick, eliciting a squirm from Ilario. “Do you comprehend?”
Ilario emitted some unintelligible squeak. As the glowering mage jerked his stick away and stepped back, the bedraggled chevalier stumbled across mounds of alyssum and wallflowers, not stopping until he stood at my shoulder, glaring back at his attacker. “Madman,” he croaked between coughing spasms. “I . . . was just . . . interesting carving . . . just looking . . .” He sucked greedily at an opaline flask he’d pulled from his cloak.
“You agreed I’d deal with you alone, Portier,” snapped the mage. “Not with a sniveling, creeping aristo who thinks he has rights to anything he chooses.”
“Divine grace, sonjeur.” Edmond inhaled sharply as sun glints sparked from the silver band circling Dante’s neck, but the young man did not hesitate to incline his back. “Excuse me . . . Mage. I am Edmond de Roble, Greville in the Guard Royale. I understand you’re to be presented at Castelle Escalon. May I offer my services as escort to Merona and your host as you get your bearings in the city?”
In moments, all was calm and ordered at Villa Margeroux. If only Philippe had assigned this young man to our partnership instead of the dithering Ilario, I might have better hopes of success.
CHAPTER FOUR
10 QAT 51 DAYS UNTIL THE ANNIVERSARY
The shutters of the palace waiting room had not yet been opened to the mild spring air, and scented candle smoke, the cloying aroma of blooming orchids, and the stifling heat had my stomach in full rebellion. Or perhaps it was only anxiety. My court debut awaited me in the Royal Presence Chamber.
“Dame Renche, present yourself.” An aide in red and gold livery awaited my companion in misery—a wilting dowager come to petition the king for her son’s reassignment to a regiment quartered in Tallemant. The young man was currently billeted on the Destinne, the vessel chosen to sail beyond the Mouth of Hedron in search of the legendary Isles of Koshavir. The woman claimed she needed her son to manage her vineyard, but her effortless domination of her serving man and the succession of footmen, secretaries, and aides a petitioner encountered en route to this room led me to conclude she did not want for managerial skills. As she repeatedly referred to voyages of exploration as “frivolous and ungodly,” and the Destinne, in particular, as an ill-omened ship, I assumed she just didn’t want to risk her boy.
The lady swept from the room. I waited and churned.
From my persistent difficulties in obtaining this audience, I assumed Ilario had outlined my scheme to His Majesty. And from the lack of any alternative information since their arrival in Merona, I presumed that young Edmond de Roble-Margeroux had survived his sevenday with Dante, and that Ilario had successfully introduced Dante to his royal sister. Barring disaster, I had forbidden them from communicating with me.
Another rivulet of sweat dampened my threadbare velvet doublet.
“Sonjeur de Duplais, present yourself.”
I adjusted my attire and trailed after the stiff-backed aide through a series of more elaborate waiting rooms and across a puddled courtyard, steamy with the previous night’s rain. Halfway down a majestic promenade, footmen swung open a pair of bronze doors to reveal an expansive chamber and an eye-filling swarm of ruffed collars, plumed hats, curled beards, jeweled necks, and billowing skirts. My escort motioned me inside.
Truly this meeting place of king and subject had been designed to impress. My royal cousin sat beneath a gold-mosaic dome, where chips of lapis, tourmaline, and malachite depicted a Sabrian monarch accepting the gifts of earth, sea, and sky from the enthroned Pantokrator. On the barreled ceiling vaults hovered painted angels so lifelike, one could believe the damp, flower-scented breeze that wafted through the chamber’s open arches a product of their wings. Or perhaps the shifting air emanated from the exquisite planetary suspended in the vault behind the king—the gleaming brass model of Heaven’s fiery orb, circled unendingly by its five children planets in the mathematical precision calculated by Philippe’s astronomers.
A half circle of ten to fifteen courtiers stood in favored attendance on Philippe. Across the dais to his right, a separate group of eight or ten clustered about a velvet-cushioned chair—empty on this day.
“I had hoped to present my petition to both king and queen,” I whispered to the stiff-backed aide at my side.
“The queen no longer attends His Majesty’s public audiences,” he said, his eyes fixed forward. “Be ready.”
So rumor was correct in that respect, at least.
Ilario’s height and flaxen hair left him easy to spot at the back of the queen’s party. But it was two wearing silver collars who drew my interest. The statuesque master mage, Gaetana, held the position of favor at the immediate right of the queen’s chair. The First Counselor’s iron gray hair was twisted tight at the back of her head. Her pale gaze reflected chilly disinterest. The tidy, elegantly gray-haired mage standing in her formidable shadow would be Orviene. Dante was not present.
“ . . . thus it is our best judgment that Augustin de Renche receive no exception to his sworn obedience.” Whether by virtue of wizardry or architecture, my cousin’s natural voice rang clear even at this remotest end of the chamber. “Indeed, sonjeura”—Philippe leaned down from his gilt chair and spoke with perfectly audible intimacy—“I surmise that your son’s share of the Destinne’s discoveries shall enable you to hire three bailiffs and an entire crew of vineyard overseers next season. Judis ainsi.”
Philippe’s formal assertion of conclusion brought a liveried aide to whisk the dowager Renche away.
“Portier de Savin-Duplais, present yourself.” Was it only imagination that the herald’s announcement of my name quieted the bustle of skirts and gossip? Certainly a fervid mumbling swelled as the aide escorted me up the long central aisle and pointed to a tiled circle at the foot of the dais. Head bowed, I sank to one knee and waited.
Curse the arrogant devil, where was Dante? It would be nice to know the mage was safely in play before enduring this unpleasantness.
“Savin-Duplais? Do we know you?”
A twitch of the aide’s gloved hand brought me to my feet. Philippe’s expression—clear eyes, the light brows that matched his neatly trimmed mustache and beard—held steady, cool, and disinterested.
All right then. The game was on. Time to destroy, at least for the present, what hopes I held of sober reputation in the wider circles of the world.
“Heaven’s grace be with you, Majesty. My late father, Onfroi de Savin-Duplais, scholar and gentleman, was fourteenth-degree Savin out of Ren ferre de Savin-Gorsiet. But alas, you and I have never met, gracious sire, a seeping wound which is the matter of my petition this day. The inter mediaries who rightly defend your presence from the common hordes have taken it upon themselves to refuse your kinsman private audience.”
The fair brows lifted. I plunged onward, trying to ignore the titters that broke here and there.
“Insulted and demeaned by these servants, your devoted cousin has been forced to resort to this public airing of his necessities . . .” I allowed the pause to extend just past comfort. “Unless your most gracious majesty would overrule them and consent to retire behind yon doors that I might speak in private.”
“Our householders reflect our mind and our instructions, cousin. What could you have to say that would require abandoning these other honored petitioners?” The king’s wave encompassed the crowd of gaping, sniggering courtiers. I doubted many were public petitioners. “Speak, kinsman. What necessity has brought you?”
“My desire to serve you, lord. For fifteen years, my family has petitioned a place in your household appropriate for one who bears the Savin name.” I tossed a bundle of letters onto the mosaic dragon whose scarlet tail encircled my feet. “Refused. Every one. Nine years ago, my honored father passed beyond the Veil. I have striv
ed to aid his journey through the Ten Gates by prayer, virtuous living, and honorable study and employment at Collegia Seravain. But temple readers assess his tessila”—to the inhaled breath of the onlookers and a modicum of guilt on my own part, I produced the palm-sized carving of red jasper sanctified by my father’s spirit—“and tell me he does not progress. He waits for his only son to supply deeds of proper quality to advance him toward his heavenly life. It is my conviction that those deeds must fall under the aegis of family. And so, gracious sire, I have dedicated myself to seek worthy service at your side.”
Philippe collapsed laughing into the depths of his great chair. “Collegia Seravain!” he bellowed in great humor. “By the Ten Gates, have we a kinsman mage?”
“Nay, Majesty.” I rubbed my bare neck as if to show him. “An acolyte only, but I—”
“So you have mastered reading and writing arcana, but demonstrate no skills of the blood—even by the assessment of those who believe in skills of the blood?”
The presence of the queen’s mages only heightened the humiliation of the wretched confession. “True, sire, but—”
“Fortunately for you, Portier de Savin-Duplais, we take but small offense at this odor of failure attached to our family name. Clearly you have been cloistered with your supernatural fraternity too long and are sorely misinformed. We employ no mages in our household. No adepts. And indeed, not even acolytes. The Camarilla Magica exists by our royal sufferance, but without credence in our counsels. Thus you must seek employment elsewhere. We would advise you look to mathematics, physics, and astronomy”—he opened his hand in the direction of the gleaming planetary—“to find the true magic the Pantokrator has granted humankind. Judis ainsi.”
Cheeks ablaze, I sank to my knee and winced at the risks of violating protocol by opening my mouth again. But, truly, a night in the public stocks could heap no worse disgrace upon my name than what I had just done, and a little stalwart whining should entrench my character in the public perception. Thus, when the aide tapped my shoulder to vacate my position, I rose to a posture of offended dignity. “I shall find a way to serve in your house, Majesty. For my honored father’s soul, I shall.”
“Impertinent cousin!” Philippe roared, flicking a finger at the aide. “Ill manners reap one night’s service at least—in our household jail. Alas for you, Lady Justice requires a balanced hand, even for those who bear the Savin name. Judis ainsi!”
The aide scooped up my hastily manufactured letters and stuffed them into my arms. The soldiers of the Guard Royale gripped my shirt collar, propelled me down the long aisle, and shoved me through the door.
PHILIPPE’S PRIVATE JAIL HOUSED A prisoner in comfort when compared to a public dungeon or the Spindle, the bleak tower perched on a barren rock in the deepest channel of the river Ley. Plastered walls surrounded a real bed with sheets and blanket, approximately clean. A tin washing bowl and covered night jar sat in one corner. A small window at eye level, albeit barred, opened to a moldy brick courtyard cluttered with dustbins. Yet the sturdy lock on the thick door and the lack of any illumination source to supplant the failing sunlight could not but reinforce a vague nausea at my first experience of prisoning.
Sitting on the bed, propped against the outer wall, I consoled myself that it was one night only, and necessary to make my humiliation real. I flicked a finger at two spiders that crept down the peeling wall and kicked a large beetle out of the sheets.
Truly, the “row” had gone well. If I was to be the king’s pawn, it was reassuring that he was an intelligent manipulator. Yet, even though I knew his opinions, Philippe’s bald declaration of scorn for sorcery had shocked me. He had, in essence, called his wife’s mages cheats as the two of them stood not fifteen metres from him. I wished I had dared look up to gauge their expressions. Surely marital discord must be too sweet a term to describe the friction between the two royal households. What an ugly mess.
A fractured laugh escaped my throat at my naive hopes that Philippe’s summons would somehow lead to my imagined “destiny.” I’d not even two months to unravel a mystery whose chief suspects I was forbidden to question. And what if we were wrong about Orviene and Gaetana and had to look in some entirely different direction?
The lock scraped and rattled, reminding my stomach that hunger might be causing my gut’s upheaval. A full day had passed since I’d supped.
But the short, robust young woman who entered my cell bore a lamp, not dinner. The ring of keys dangling from her leather belt evidenced responsibilities, yet her jeweled earrings, smoothly coiled hair, and full sleeved gown of indigo silk hardly bespoke a jailer.
“I’ll knock when I’m ready to leave,” she announced to the hesitant guard. “I doubt Sonjeur de Duplais poses any risk to health or virtue.”
Of a sudden acutely aware of my unseemly posture, I kicked off the sheets and jumped to my feet. My spall pouch dropped to the floor. I bent to retrieve it, noting the regrettably threadbare state of my stockings. My cheeks flamed. Alas, the guards had taken my shoes and belt, and I had to settle for buttoning my gaping doublet with the spall pouch inside and running fingers through my straggling hair. Dithering fool. But then, far more time had passed since a woman had graced my bedchamber than since I had dined.
“Divine grace, damoselle,” I said, bowing, left hand properly exposed on my shoulder.
“Maura ney Billard,” she said, baring her own left hand.
Though many might judge the lady plain, the earthen hues of her hair, eyes, and round cheeks glowed warmly in the lamplight. Her voice, on the other hand, was decidedly cool and precise.
After a brisk survey of my chamber, eyeing the rumpled bed where the beetle and several of its friends had taken up residence again, she seated herself on the three-legged stool in the corner. Its proximity to the bare floor did no more to diminish her self-assurance than did her diminutive height or her brief nose. “I serve as administrator of the queen’s household, including the Consilium Reginae—Her Majesty’s advisors in matters of sorcery. Please sit down.”
I perched on the edge of the bed, near swallowing my tongue. Were we found out? Ilario . . . Dante . . . Ixtador’s Gates, what had they done?
The lady cocked her head and leaned forward, examining me as if she were a kennelmaster considering a new pup. “I witnessed your petition to the king, sonjeur. This afternoon, as someone recounted the tale to Her Majesty, Mage Gaetana mentioned that you had served as archivist and librarian at Collegia Seravain. Is that true?”
“Yes, my lady.”
“Her Majesty has just taken on a new advisor,” said the lady, setting her lamp on the floor, “a master mage unfamiliar with court life. The mage deems an assistant necessary, in particular an acolyte or adept who might acquire and maintain the books he needs for his duties. Never having retained his own assistant, he has no name in mind and has left the hiring to me. I am here to offer you the position.”
Caught between relief and confusion, my mind snarled like a sprung clockwork. Ilario, not Dante, was supposed to put about that he was in desperate need of a personal secretary.
“But I—” What to say? This was all wrong. If I refused her offer . . . insulted this lady or somehow made myself undesirable . . . how could I then apply to work for Ilario?
“Your determination to serve the royal family would be well satisfied by this position, sonjeur. And your qualification of good family and sincere piety, as well as your experience, seems a fortuitous match. Naturally, we would require references, but I’ve no doubts they’ll be satisfactory and see no reason to delay.”
“References . . .” Blood pounded my temples. This was absurd. I couldn’t work for Dante. I needed to go places he’d have no reason to go; inquire about things he had no reason to know. Dante had agreed with my plan.
Think, Portier. I breathed deeply twice, a remedy I’d often used to force time and thought to slow. Dante was not stupid. He must have some compelling reason to contravene our plan. And this whole
matter . . . the woman’s haste . . . seemed odd.
Billard. A major blood family. She would have numerous contacts at Seravain and elsewhere—adepts and acolytes who would relish court service. And her use of ney Billard, instead of de Billard, indicated that her mother’s family outranked her father’s, which often meant even more relatives eager for advancement. Why would she choose an unknown? She embodied a quiet authority, yet her plump fingers had twined themselves into a knot in her lap.
“I would need to write letters,” I said, slowly—testing. “Explain my need for references. It could take a tennight or two, perhaps a month. But I could certainly consider your kind offer.”
Disappointment melted her cool mask, and rue tweaked a friendly smile. “I abhor dissembling, Sonjeur de Duplais, and thus I must inform you that this offer promises no comfortable employment. I pounced upon your qualifications both because of your desire to be at court and also because the longer this new mage resides at Castelle Escalon, the more difficult it will be to fill the position. Master Dante is a most . . . intense . . . man.”
“How so, lady? You intrigue me.” I buried my mouth in my hands, lest the smile grown on my own face give me away. She had caught Dante perfectly.
She frowned and stared at the ceiling for a moment, as if determining how to couch her description. To her credit, when she spoke, she looked me square on. “His words, his opinions, and his scrutiny carry weight beyond the usual. I can’t describe it better than that. His manners demonstrate little grace. His frankness is more akin to flaying than speech, and he has no patience with frivolity or hesitation. Yet he comes highly qualified, recommended by persons Her Majesty trusts. Her Majesty was entirely satisfied after their private interview.”