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The architectural world has recently benefited from the development of new strengthening and connecting magical constructs. Such constructs allow for a stronger and more secure base, giving an architect the option to use different materials in ways that were not available to them before. The Crystal Market’s glass “bricks” are possible only because of these new constructs.
—Antoine Capet, master crafter and architect
The Crafters’ Guild Crystal Market was a marvel—an enormous structure built out of thousands of bricks made of glass, not clay. The glass bricks were infused with, strengthened, and held together by magical constructs. The architects and crafters declared the glass bricks to be harder and more durable than granite.
The Crystal Market was one of the most popular places in Evreux. Vendors from all over the world came here to sell their wares beneath the glittering glass dome. One could buy everything: exquisite lace shawls from Bheldem, sherry from Estara, or spice cakes from the Aligoes Islands. Since this was a holiday, the hall would have been filled with people.
Those in the room were too horrified to speak. Alaric had to put his hand on the back of his chair for support. He looked immediately to Cecile.
When the queen saw the look, her face flushed in anger. She broke the silence by saying, “I am sure this is very shocking, but have we all forgotten poor Bandit?”
Alaric cast his wife a disgusted glance and said coldly, “Get her out of here.”
“You should return to the princess, Your Majesty,” said the duchess, trying to lure the queen away. “She should not hear this terrible news from someone else. You should be the one to tell her.”
The queen refused to leave. “I will not be sent off like a servant!”
Alaric ignored her and turned to D’argent.
“How did such a disaster happen?”
“No one seems to know, Your Majesty,” D’argent replied. “Survivors say they heard the sound of the glass cracking. Someone shouted that the ceiling was going to fall. There was pandemonium. People were trampled trying to flee. Those inside were cut to ribbons. The carnage is reported to be awful. The gutters of Market Square are said to be ankle deep in blood.”
“Thank you,” said Alaric. He had turned quite gray. “You may go.”
D’argent shot a look at the countess, indicating he had something of importance to relate to her in private. She gave an oblique nod and promised to join him when she could. D’argent departed.
News of the tragedy was spreading through the palace. Cecile could hear cries and screams and calls for His Majesty. Alaric walked over to the window and stood gazing out at the mists of the Breath slowly twining about the palace. Far below, hundreds of his people lay dead, dying.
The queen burst out suddenly, “If you will do nothing to find our darling’s little dog, I shall think you are a cruel and heartless father!”
Alaric’s expression hardened. He was being made to look foolish and that angered him. The duchess was quick to see his anger and she did her best to once more try to urge the queen away.
Queen Annemarie pushed her aside. “He has no care for the sufferings of his dear child—”
“Enough!” Alaric thundered, enraged. “Call out the palace guard. Send them to search for the princess’s damn dog. Now leave me, all of you!”
“Thank you, my dear,” the queen said, sniffing.
She swept from the room with a glance of triumph at Cecile, who coolly took no notice. The duchess, looking extremely uncomfortable, dropped a curtsy and left rapidly, taking her nephew with her.
“Your Majesty, you should summon your ministers—” Cecile began.
“Leave me,” he ordered.
“I do not like to bring this up at the time of such a terrible disaster, but what should we do about Freya—”
“Do what you like,” he said coldly.
He was going to leave the Braffan turmoil to her to solve. If she made the right decision, he would take the credit. If she made the wrong move, he would disavow her. Precisely what she had expected, which made her wonder why she should suddenly be so angry. She gave a deep curtsy and departed.
The halls outside the royal chambers were crowded with the inhabitants of the palace exclaiming over the disaster in loud, high-pitched panic. When Cecile emerged from the royal presence, they clustered around her, clamoring for information.
She said curtly she knew nothing more about this than they did, and pushed through the press of terrified people. To add a touch of the macabre to the tragedy, servants and guardsmen were crawling about on the floor, peering under tables and calling Bandit’s name in wheedling tones.
Cecile arrived at her chambers to find that the astute D’argent had cleared the salon of courtiers and had dismissed the viscount, her secretary. D’argent was waiting for her in her office.
“Someone you should meet, my lady,” said D’argent. “Give me one moment.”
D’argent vanished. The countess sat at her desk, reflecting wearily that after more than twenty years of service to this weak king, propping him up, making him look effective and intelligent, she should not be angry with him. She might as well be angry with a wolf for slaughtering rabbits. Such was the nature of the beast.
D’argent returned, accompanied by a well-dressed gentleman who was deathly pale, with blood on his face and clothing. He was holding a cloth pressed to a large gash on his head. He bowed to the countess and demurred when D’argent brought forth a chair.
“I fear I will get blood on it…”
“Nonsense, monsieur, you are injured,” said Cecile. “Be seated. D’argent, summon one of the healers—”
“Nobody, please, my lady,” the gentleman gasped.
He sank into the chair, and D’argent poured a glass of brandy, which the man thankfully accepted. He gulped it down, shuddered.
Cecile looked to D’argent for an explanation.
“My lady, this gentleman is Monsieur Reynard Moreau. He is one of the architects who designed the Crystal Market. Reynard and I were friends at university. He brought me word of the disaster.”
“I came as soon as it happened,” said Moreau.
He was shaking, and not from his wounds, which were minor. He was shaking from fear.
“Monsieur Moreau has come to you for help, my lady,” said D’argent. “He is afraid that he will be blamed for the tragedy.”
He has good reason to be afraid, Cecile reflected. Someone has to be held to account. The wretched man could face execution if evidence came out that the architectural design was flawed. And he might well deserve it.
“What have you to say, monsieur?” said the countess in cool tones.
“I didn’t know where else to turn,” said Moreau. “I fear I will be arrested at any moment—”
“Then you should be quick about it,” Cecile said.
“I brought this, my lady.” Moreau removed a piece of paper from an inner pocket of his coat. The paper was frayed and worn. “I ask you to read it. The report is not long.”
The report was stained with blood from the man’s hand. Cecile picked up her lorgnette and rapidly scanned the report.
“Dear God,” she murmured.
She read again more slowly, then laid the paper down on the desk. She lowered the lorgnette to gaze at Monsieur Moreau.
“You wrote this report?”
“Yes, my lady.”
“The report is addressed to the grand bishop. You gave it to him and kept a copy.”
“Yes, my lady.”
“The report is dated six months ago. Is that correct?”
“Six months, yes, my lady.”
Cecile handed the report to D’argent. He read through it, shook his head, and handed it back to the countess. She started to return it to the architect, then changed her mind.
“If you have no objection, monsieur, I should like to keep this. If you are arrested, it would be better if this were not found upon your person. Evidence such as thi
s has a way of vanishing,” she added drily.
Moreau shuddered again at the mention of arrest and gulped down another proffered glass of brandy. Some color began returning to the man’s face, and his hands stopped trembling.
“How did you come to write such a report?” Cecile asked.
“When the Crafters’ Guild members first began to notice the cracks and the strange behavior of the glass bricks they brought the matter to my attention. I investigated and I was concerned enough by what I found to write this report to the grand bishop. I took it to him in person.”
Cecile tapped the report with the lorgnette. “You state that the magical constructs set in the glass bricks were starting to fail, the failure was occurring at an alarming rate, and it appeared to be growing worse. Is this what you told him?”
“Yes, my lady.”
Cecile referred again to the report. “You said that the magical contructs were, and I quote, ‘behaving strangely.’ You could feel the glass bricks ‘vibrate,’ the magical constructs ‘break apart’ beneath your fingers.” She frowned. “I am a crafter myself, monsieur. I know magical constructs can weaken over time, but magic cannot be destroyed. The constructs cannot ‘break apart.’”
“I myself would have said such an occurrence was not possible, my lady. And yet, I saw it. I felt the glass vibrate. I saw the constructs fracture. I was reminded—you will think this odd—I was reminded of the musical instrument known as the glass harp.”
The glass harp was more a drawing room curiosity than a true musical instrument. The performer ran chalked fingers around the rims of crystal glasses filled with water, each glass with water at a different level. The vibrarion of the glass by means of the friction of the fingers created different notes. The performer caused the glass to “sing.”
“I heard the same sort of eerie singing sound, my lady.”
Cecile was perplexed. She had no reason to doubt this man. She could not imagine him creating a lie so elaborate. “What is causing the magic to act in this strange manner?”
“That is what I asked myself, my lady. And what I asked the grand bishop.”
“What was the grand bishop’s reply?”
“He assured me that the magic was undergoing a natural cycle. He explained that magic waxes and wanes like the phases of the moon. Indeed, my lady, the fractures in the constructs do appear to occur more frequently at some times than at others. And it is true that the Crystal Market was the only building so severely affected, though that might be because the crystal bricks rely far more heavily on magic than other ordinary brick or stone. A building made of real brick, for example, does not require magical constructs for strengthening to the same extent as a building made of glass.”
Cecile was silent as she turned this over in her mind. Her gaze went back to the report, still on her desk.
“I don’t suppose there were witnesses to the conversation between you and the grand bishop?”
“No, my lady,” said Moreau. “I wanted to bring my associates, but the grand bishop said he would meet with me only in private.”
“I gather you did not believe what the grand bishop told you about the magic.”
Moreau gave a faint smile. “I studied the science of magic in university, my lady. I know for a fact that magic does not ‘wax and wane.’ When I tried to present this view to the grand bishop he interrupted me, asking if I believed what the writings of the saints tell us—that magic is the Voice of God and that God can speak or be silent as He wills.”
“What did you say, monsieur?”
“What could I say?” Moreau made a helpless gesture. “How could I tell the grand bishop I believed the writings of the saints to be lovely poetry, but certainly not science. I assured him I was a faithful son of the church. Then he asked me if there was a possibility my findings might be flawed. Perhaps I had ‘imagined’ the whole thing. I was terrified and I stammered that there was always that possibility. What else could I have said?”
“Nothing,” Cecile murmured.
“And all the while I knew we were just moments away from disaster. I have gone to the Crystal Market daily to conduct research on how and why the magic is fracturing. I was there today when … when … the vibrations became alarming. There was that strange singing sound and then … Oh, God!”
Drops of sweat broke out on Moreau’s forehead. He tried to swallow and gagged. D’argent silently poured more brandy and handed the goblet to him. The countess waited for him to recover himself, while Moreau mopped his forehead and continued to relate what had happened.
“I was standing just inside the main entrance, talking to one of the crafters employed to maintain the magic. I heard a splintering crack like a gunshot. A brick from the ceiling fell and then … there was a cascade … The screams … I hear them now. I will hear them forever.”
Moreau put his hand to his face. His shoulders shook, and he sobbed aloud. D’argent rested his hand on his shoulder in sympathy and looked at the countess.
“What do we do, my lady?” he asked.
Cecile thought of Father Jacob, what he had told her about the green beam and contramagic. “Monsieur Moreau, did you see flashes of green light prior to the disaster?”
“No, my lady,” said Moreau, puzzled. “Why?”
“Nothing. Just a fancy of mine,” said Cecile. “I fear, monsieur, that you are right. You are in danger. You will most assuredly be arrested and silenced. We must take steps to prevent such an occurrence.”
Cecile rang a silver bell that stood on her desk. The countess’s lady’s maid, a middle-aged woman who had been with the countess since she had first come to court, responded to the summons with alacrity.
“Marie, take this gentleman with you. Disguise him as a palace servant and guide him to the kitchen by the back stairs. D’argent, fetch the carriage, then meet Monsieur Moreau in the kitchen and escort him to the safe house on the Rue Laplace. After that, go to his office and remove all reports pertaining to the Crystal Market. Monsieur Moreau can tell you where to find them. Do you have a wife, monsieur? Family?”
Moreau shook his head.
“Good. That makes matters easier. D’argent will arrange to smuggle you out of the country. I am afraid you must become an exile, Monsieur Moreau. At least for a time.”
A relieved Moreau expressed his gratitude, as Marie led him from the room. D’argent remained to receive further instructions.
“You might well fall under suspicion yourself, D’argent,” she said.
“I fear that may happen, my lady. Moreau said he asked one of the palace footmen where he could find me.”
“When the guards question you, tell them your friend was wounded and in shock. He was talking gibberish. You put him in a hackney cab and that was the last you saw of him.”
“Yes, my lady. What do I do with the reports?”
“Send them by our most trusted messenger to Father Jacob Northrop at the Arcanum.”
D’argent nodded.
“Send funds to the Sisters of Mercy to provide help for the victims and to say a mass for the dead.”
“Yes, my lady.”
“That will be all, D’argent. Thank you.”
As he was about to leave, Cecile stopped him at the door.
“Oh, and one more thing,” she said. “Arrange for the crafters to make a dog collar for Bandit. A jeweled collar set with a magical construct that will permit his mistress to find him should he become lost. Hopefully that will spare us more of the queen’s histrionics.”
“An excellent idea, my lady.”
Cecile read Moreau’s report once again, then carried it to the music room. Rarely used, the tower room was kept locked except for those rare occasions when Cecile held a musical evening or went there to play. She unlocked the door, entered, and lit a lamp. A pianoforte and a standing harp stood in the center, surrounded by chairs for musicians and rows of chairs for a small audience. Heavy velvet curtains covered a bay window. The walls were decorated with paintings of
a variety of shapes and sizes, from small oval portraits in gilt frames to large paintings portraying two ships in full sail, a dragon count in his court finery, and others of a more musical nature.
Cecile shut and locked the door behind her, then carried the lamp to one of the small portraits at the far end of the room. She touched the face of the woman in the portrait, and a magical construct flared briefly. She removed the portrait, exposing the wall behind, blank except for the outline created by the rubbing of the frame. Cecile drew a magical construct on the wall and watched the edges of a secret cabinet appear. She drew another magical construct, unlocking the cabinet, and removed an iron box that she opened with yet a third magical construct. She kept various important papers inside the box, including her marriage certificate and her will. She started to add the report to these, then paused.
A miniature lay at the bottom of the box, nestled in a corner. The small painting was an oval watercolor done on porcelain and framed in gold: a man’s face, a beloved face, the face of Julian de Guichen, her husband, and the father of her son. Another miniature lay beside it, a portrait of Stephano in his Dragon Brigade uniform. She had commissioned the portrait without his knowledge, hiring the same artist who had painted his formal portrait when he received his knighthood.
Cecile lifted the two miniatures and thought how alike the two men were. She touched them both to her lips, then replaced them inside the box. She added the report to the other contents, shut the box, and returned it to the cabinet. She replaced the magical constructs and the painting, then doused the light. Sitting down in the chair behind the harp, she ran her fingers over the strings in the darkness, feeling the strings vibrate beneath her fingers, listening to the music they produced.
She remained there alone and thoughtful far into the night.
* * *
The grand bishop was at work in his study, putting the final touches on the Midsummer’s Eve sermon, which was always one of his most popular. He was reading certain passages aloud, admiring how they sounded, when the door burst open and the monsignor rushed into the room.
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