and cannon to guarantee victory if we deliver the ruby to him
before the first of December.”
The count looked long and hard at each man present. “I
need your absolute loyalty, your sworn promise that you will
succeed or perish in this attempt.”
“You have it, my lord,” said each man in turn, bowing low.
“Good. One more thing. The princess Catherine Elizabeth.
Galerien had assumed she was already dead when he met with
Rostov. After learning of Dawson’s failed abduction attempt,
he was apoplectic with rage. Now, he wants her death even more
than he wants the ruby. If we can provide this for him, he will
pay more. A great deal more. Enough to take Jehanna next.”
He paused. When he spoke, his voice was just a whisper.
“Find her. And when you do, kill her, and bring me her head.
Galerien wants proof.
“When we have done all this, we shall return to our base
and amass our legions. Laurentia will be ours, and the Rostovs
will be but a shameful memory from Satan’s time. Now go, and
do what you are sworn to do.”
The figures bowed low and crept into the night. Count
Laslow departed the empty square, unaware of another figure
that suddenly stepped into the light amidst the swirling fog.
A tall, blond, broad shouldered man in a gray cloak lifted
his hood about his head and disappeared.
***
“So now you see,” Lysander said to the young men and
women gathered on benches in the colonnade, “if we wish, we
could defy gravity to such an extent that we could cause a
machine to rise beyond the earth.”
Jacob paused to watch his friend instruct the youths, aware
of the other philosophers and their pupils gathered in small
groups throughout the area. Lysander was already making a
name for himself among them, and many fathers in the City
sent their daughters and sons to him, for when he questioned a
youth, he opened his eyes to truth, the way Socrates had in the
long-ago days before the City destroyed him.
“To what purpose, Lysander?” asked an older man who wore
his beard like the Spartans, without mustache. Demetrius Thasos
was a vain man for all his ascetic appearance, a philosopher
with a small following at best, and a desire to bring Lysander
down to his own level by slick sophistry. Jacob leaned against a
pillar and watched, knowing he’d not be necessary as an
advocate for his friend. Lysander could take care of himself.
Lysander smiled. “Well you should ask, Demetrius. First,
one must accept that we are a people to whom armed conflict is
anathema. But this is what the Outlanders use, and will continue
to use, until they have destroyed much of this earth. Before that
happens, we shall leave, to found a new world beyond the stars.
It is not too soon for our mathematicians and our scientists to
ponder how we can devise machines in order to depart.”
“Machines, in which we shall take our statues, our building
materials, and our people?”
“We shall not leave our people behind, nor the means to
feed and house them,” Lysander said.
“These machines must be huge, indeed, to house people,
tools, horses, and livestock of all kinds.”
Lysander smiled. “And the statues sacred to the City.” All
eyes turned to look up at the Temple Square and the great Athene
within her open sanctuary.
“And what will power the machine, Lysander?” the sophist
asked.
Lysander’s gaze crossed the Colonnade, to rest upon a group
of tailors seated cross-legged on the ground. Each one sewed a
nondescript cloak of gray, woven by the guild of weavers in the
City. He then motioned to three boys, running along the exercise
ground beyond the colonnade. Above their heads, beautiful,
brightly colored kites designed in the Chinese manner, a dragon,
a lion, and a bluebird, raced in the wind, attached to each boy
only by the strength of his Gift. Children raced after them
cheering.
One of the boys narrowed his eyes, and his kite rose higher
than the others. Another, not to be outdone, swept his up to the
same height, where it somersaulted, its tail a glorious, circling
plume. The children laughed and clapped their hands. His two
friends laughed as well, naming him the victor. Their
concentration broke, and the kites drifted down into their hands.
“We shall carry our own power, Demetrius. Together, all of
us aboard will lift the starship and sail it.” Dismissing his
opponent, Lysander turned again to his pupils, who worked now
with stylus and parchment in the old way of the scribes.
“We are the beginning,” he said. “We shall not see the
culmination. But we shall chart the course.” The youths and
maidens looked at him as though he were a god.
But Lysander did not have an ounce of hubris, Jacob knew.
He was a visionary, a brilliant man, a gift to Arkadia. He would
care for his wife without invoking those turbulent emotions the
Outlander king invoked in his sister. With a man like Lysander,
a woman would have the help she needed learning to control
her Gift.
He waited until Lysander dismissed his pupils, then joined
him. “Come,” he said. “Shall we drink together and talk?”
At these formal words, Lysander looked at him closely, and
then he slowly smiled. They walked in silence toward the tables
outside the tavern beside the baths. A servant brought wine and
water, which Jacob Augustus, as host, mixed. He gave a cup to
Lysander and raised his own.
“To Seraphina,” he said quietly.
The raised cup paused before it reached Lysander’s lips.
“You will bring her home soon?” he asked, his gaze intent.
“I will,” Jacob told him.
And Lysander replied in the age-old words of the marriage
proposal. “Jacob, I ask you and the Mage permission to tell
Seraphina that the earth rejoices in her beauty.”
***
After a restless night full of strange dreams, Sera awoke to
the Princess Katherine’s knock on her chamber door.
“Your presence is requested at ten o’clock this evening. At
the ball.” Katherine paused at what must have been Sera’s blank
look. “Nikki told me he explained it all to you—the opening
ball, etcetera, et cetera.”
“Oh,” said Sera, glumly shrugging into a dressing gown.
“That ball.”
“Indeed, that ball.” Katherine gave her a half smile of
sympathy. “Nikki will be in conference until the ball, and you
are to rest.”
“Doesn’t your brother ever get tired of telling us what to
do?”
“It is a king’s way, to rule.” Katherine gave her a smile. “I
hope you will take tea with me beforehand. You’ll need
nourishment to get through the evening.”
“I should like that,” said Sera. “But afterwards…. I am sure
that my presence will not be noticed at this ball. Nicholas will
entertain h
is friends, and you will be quite busy overseeing the
chefs and the musicians.”
She did not want to see Nicholas again so soon, particularly
when he was dressed in the magnificent formal dress of his
office, standing with arrogant ease among his friends, every
inch a monarch. Why couldn’t he wear his linen shirt and the
fawn colored breeches that hugged his hips all the time? Why
couldn’t he be what he looked like then—a strong, upright,
comely male of indeterminate station whom she wished she
could love and bring home to live with her in Arkadia?
“Nikki most specifically instructed me to tell you that you
have the requisite costume, the requisite élan, and the requisite
command of the king. You are to make your debut tonight, Sera.
I’m afraid we’re both stuck.” Katherine patted her hand.
“Your brother oversteps himself.”
“Nikki only pushes when he honestly feels he must. He
realizes that I have no confidence. Thus he makes me endure
these evenings, in the hopes that familiarity with his courtiers
will at least breed a bit of contempt, and I shall feel that much
better about myself in the obvious comparison with others.
However, thus far I have only wished myself back in the peace
of the convent, where the nuns did not care a whit for my lack
thereof.”
“But you have made a joke, Katherine. A play on words,
no? And I caught it. Perhaps you are not so lacking in wit, and
I am not so hopelessly hu-morless, after all.”
Katherine’s smile made her face glow with an incandescence
that far outdid mere beauty. “Do you know, Sera? I’ve never
had a friend before. ‘Tis a wondrous lovely feeling to laugh at
my sorry predicament with a friend.”
Tea was a hurried affair, which Katherine and Sera ate from
trays in the princess’s rooms. Maids scurried past them as they
ate, carrying petticoats and gowns and slippers for Katherine to
choose from. They tried to talk of silly, everyday things—how
and when they would ride the next morning, how in spring Sera’s
garden would bloom with the bulbs she had planted two weeks
ago. It was only when the footmen appeared with the large
copper tub that Sera turned to Katherine in a panic.
“I do not wish to go,” she said, grasping her friend’s hand.
“We’ll be together,” said Katherine. “It won’t be so terrible.
After all, what can happen?”
***
Nicholas took the last sip of brandy he was to get for the
next two hours and crushed out the cigar he shouldn’t have
been smoking. The weather had been miserably cold recently.
His chest already felt tight, and his throat had been sore for a
few days. Any other time, he’d be skulking in his chambers
with a mustard plaster on his chest. But he was here now,
indulging in drink and tobacco in order to welcome his old friend
from England, Lord Robert Grey.
Nicholas had spent the last days outside exercising with
the cavalry. For the sake of their morale, the soldiers must see
him working with them. He’d need to get away very soon to
hide in some warm dacha until his breathing came easy again.
The times were too perilous for him to succumb to pneumonia.
Still, tonight, he must show himself to his court, to reassure the
nobility and his generals that their king was hale and hearty.
And now he had to deal with England’s message. Robert
stood tall and straight-backed, looking out the window of the
library. It was just like Robert, with his sense of honor, to come
himself with the bad news rather than send a messenger.
Nicholas crossed the room to stand beside him. He stared
down at the torch lit courtyard. Servants in livery milled about,
opening carriage doors and helping ladies down from them.
Like the last days, this night was unusually cold for November.
All of the women entering the palace and most of the men, as
well, were muffled up to their ears in fur lined cloaks.
“I hate the cold,” Nicholas said glumly.
“I am sorrier than I can tell you, my friend. And furious
with politics and the self-serving attitude of my government,”
said Robert.
“It’s no matter, Rob. I knew this would probably be the
outcome of your petition. Self-interest will guide England just
as it guides Laurentia. But I’m prodigiously grateful that you
came yourself to tell me of it.”
“Nikki, if it’s any consolation, the men and I are ready to
fight with you.”
“What? Your old outfit from the Spanish campaign?”
“We took a vote before I left home. All of us owe you our
lives, man. ‘Tis the least we can do to help out a bit here.”
“You are very kind, Rob. Convey my heartfelt thanks to all
of the men of the forty-seventh,” Nicholas said, knowing full
well he would never allow the regiment to fight for Laurentia.
Aside from the obvious cloud of treason looming over Rob’s
horizon should he and the others fight for a country not allied
to England, there was the very real concern that Rob’s wife was
carrying again and close to her confinement.
Nicholas rubbed his forehead between thumb and finger.
Napoleon’s troops moved south of Moscow. The march could
turn into a rout or an organized attack on Laurentia.
Word of another attack, this one on a small village between
Selonia and Montanyard, meant that the terrorists had traveled
west a good hundred miles without detection. Nicholas must
step up the plans for the raid on the terrorist base. He had to do
something. His people were in an agony of fear.
“You did the best you could for us, Rob. Come. We must
open this damned ball.”
Nicholas crossed the room to go directly to the ballroom,
pausing to leave his glass on the desk. “There’s someone I wish
you to meet. A lady not of the mold you would usually expect
at a ball such as this one. Her name is Sera.”
“Sera Who?”
“This lady will not reveal her family name,” said Nicholas.
“Actually,” he looked at Rob, waiting to gauge his reaction,
“there is a good deal the lady will not share with me. I’m having
the devil of a time convincing her to trust me. Odd, isn’t it,
when I’m the most trustworthy of fellows?”
Robert laughed and clapped him on the back. “Perhaps she
senses a more dangerous side to you than do the rest of us. I
shall be very happy to meet this Sera. I take it she has not stirred
your interest because she is a master of dead languages, or a
philosopher.”
Nicholas idly turned the pages of an illustrated volume by
William Blake. “Actually, she is quite fluent in several
languages, and her grasp of philosophy is rather strong, but no,
that’s not a fraction of what interests me.”
Nicholas wondered just how closely he could hold Sera
tonight in the waltz and still keep her reputation safe from any
further speculation by his snide courtiers. Certainly not as closely
as he wished to. He closed the volume of poetry with a thump
and gave Robert what he hoped passed for a nonchalant smile.
“You’ll see her tonight, when she makes her debut.”
***
Sera slipped into her room and shook out her cloak. It had
been a risk, indeed, to sneak out into the night already dressed
for the ball and comb the inns within the perimeter of
Montanyard for any word of the thief. She knew by now what
harm could come to her. But the ball had caused enough
commotion within the palace to allow a brief escape. This had
been the first night in ever so long when the guards were too
busy to notice her.
No one had heard of the thief yet, and time was running
out. The first snow was only a day or two away. Although the
night was clear, she could already scent moisture on the air.
She must visit Monsieur Carlshonn again quite soon. The draper
might well have heard news from the inns amidst the shops in
the city center.
Sera glanced into the cheval glass, smoothed down her hair
and fluffed out her gown. Compared to the river wharves and
the smoky taverns she had visited tonight, the ballroom should
not hold much terror for her. But she found she was as nervous
as a child attempting her first examination before the council of
elders. She took a deep breath and lifted her chin. The sooner
begun, the sooner done, she told herself as she swept into the
corridor and down the long stairway toward the noise and gaiety
at the end of the hallway.
The huge ballroom glittered. The mirrors along the wall
and the windows opposite reflected the brilliant light from
crystal and gilt chandeliers. The noise and the heat were
overwhelming. Women in brilliant silks and brocades drifted
past Sera, their throats gleaming with the dazzling light of their
jeweled necklaces. The gentlemen were as showy in brocaded
and embroidered waistcoats in every color of the rainbow, and
bright evening jackets to match.
Sera stood amidst this gaily bedecked crowd in an ice blue
silk gown that bared her shoulders indecently, a dance card that
she did not plan to fill, and a fan she could only use like a novice
dangling from her gloved wrist. Women glanced coldly at her.
Men adjusted their quizzing glasses and perused her person.
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