“Like the eyes of a snake,” D’argent suggested.
“I think I would see more life in the snake,” said Cecile. “She is dangerous, D’argent. I worry about what she may be plotting.”
“You may rest assured that I will take every precaution in my dealings with her, my lady.”
D’argent departed, leaving Cecile to prepare for her meeting with the princess.
* * *
Cecile was seated at the pianoforte when the Princess Sophia arrived with Bandit trotting along behind. As Cecile rose and curtsied, she saw at a glance that the young woman was in love. Sophia was always beautifully dressed—her mother saw to that—but she herself had never taken much interest in her appearance. Today she had endeavored to hide a few pimples with powder. Her gown was new, and she was wearing a pair of new shoes.
“Those shoes look small for you,” said Cecile.
“They do hurt my feet,” Sophia admitted. “But he says my feet are so dainty…”
She blushed prettily as she spoke and, turning to hide her blushes, ordered Bandit to go sit in a chair. The dog, as usual, pretended not to understand. He sat at her feet, wagging his tail.
“You are a very bad dog,” Sophia scolded and to punish him for his refusal to obey, picked him up and kissed him.
“What piece shall we play?” asked Cecile.
Sophia chose a duet from a popular opera about star-crossed lovers.
“Tell me about this ‘he’ who thinks you have dainty feet,” said Cecile with a smile.
Sophia missed her fingering and this mistake ended the duet. Cecile continued to play the music as they talked.
“I told you about him, Countess,” said Sophia, her flush deepening. “The Conte Osinni, although he says I am to call him by his given name, Lucello. He is the most handsome, the most charming, the most wonderful man I have ever met. He dances so well. He says such lovely things to me.”
Sophia talked of the type of wine Lucello liked, his favorite foods, the books he read because she recommended them, the poetry she read because he loved it. He was well educated, it seemed, and well traveled. He did not like to hunt. He abhorred bloodshed, he told her. He sang, he danced, but only waltzes, due to his limp. He was a crafter, but had never studied the art of magic. He adored Bandit. Sadly, the dog did not like the conte.
“Bandit bit him,” Sophia said. “I was mortified. I made him go without cake for two whole days.”
“Has this Lucello made advances, Sophia?” Cecile asked quietly.
Blood rushed to Sophia’s face, and she hung her head, glancing at Cecile from out of the corner of her eye.
“He kissed my hand, my lady,” Sophia said in guilt-ridden tones. “And I am ashamed to say that I did nothing to stop him.”
Cecile breathed an inward sigh of relief, even as she tried her best to look stern.
“You know that was most improper, Your Highness.”
“I know,” said Sophia. “I scolded him severely and he asked my pardon a dozen times. He said his feelings overcame him.”
“Sophia, it would be better if you did not spend so much time in the company of the young conte. If he loves you—”
“Oh, we have never spoken of love, my lady!” Sophia protested.
“Haven’t you?” Cecile asked.
Sophia could not look at her. “He said … He did say … he loved me.”
“And what did you say?”
“I ran away without saying anything.”
The conte was certainly doing everything in his power to seduce the princess. Perhaps the young man did truly love her. Cecile had her doubts.
“You did well, Sophia. You will be careful?”
“Yes, my lady.”
“And feel free to confide in me, my dear. You may tell me anything. I will understand.”
“I know you will, my lady,” said Sophia, warmly. “Thank you.”
Cecile began to say more, when there was a knock on the door.
“The Travian ambassador, my lady. He says the matter is urgent.”
“I will be there in a moment.”
“I should go,” said Sophia. “It is almost time to dress for dinner. Thank you.” She impulsively threw her arms around Cecile, gave her a kiss, and said softly, “You were right. These terrible shoes are too small! I’m going to take them off at once.”
Sophia gathered up Bandit, who had fallen asleep, and carried him away. Cecile left her music and went to meet with the Travian ambassador.
36
A spy has many tools at his command. The ability to disguise oneself is perhaps the most valuble. Someone taking on the persona of another person must become the person, live and breathe that person. If you are disguised as a starving beggar, you must starve.
—Sir Henry Wallace
The next day, the Braffan pot boiled over. His Majesty was feeling better and decided to hold his levee. It turned into a fiasco. The grand bishop arrived to demand publicly that the king send the entire naval fleet to deal with the Freyans. Furious, Alaric declared he would add two frigates and a couple of patrol boats that were guarding the coast of Bourlet, a duchy he didn’t much like anyway, but that was all.
Montagne maintained that this wasn’t good enough, and the two got into a violent argument, in the midst of which ambassadors from Travia and Estara, along with a representative of the Braffan High Council, joined the fray, to the delight of those who had thought this was going to be just another gossip-filled levee. Travia stated they were prepared to send their fleet to protect Braffa from Freya. Braffa said they didn’t need Travian protection and demanded that Estara immediately withdraw her ships and allow the Freyan ships safe passage. This set off howls of rage and protest from the grand bishop, and from both Travia and Estara. His Majesty ended the levee, stalked out in a royal huff, and sent immediately for Cecile.
“Fix it,” he told her when she arrived.
“Somewhere—probably in Braffa—Sir Henry Wallace is laughing,” Cecile muttered beneath her breath.
She could not find a way to “fix it.” The best she could do was to cool tempers, stop the hotheaded Estaran ambassador from challenging the Travian ambassador to a duel, placate the grand bishop, and attempt to prevent Alaric, who was in a towering rage, from committing political suicide. She went from one meeting to the next until late in the afternoon, when she finally returned to her chambers, drained and worn out.
She entered through a private door to avoid facing the crowd in her salon, sank down at her desk, and then sent for D’argent, who had impatiently been awaiting her return.
“I am sorry I could not see you sooner,” she said. “This Braffan situation is a disaster. Sir Henry has beaten us this time, I fear.”
“No need to apologize, my lady.”
“You have news about the duchess?”
“I do, my lady. I found her last night on the lower floors of the palace—”
He was interrupted. The countess’s secretary knocked, then opened the door.
“I told you I was not to be disturbed, Viscount—” Cecile said, annoyed.
“A Monsieur Dubois has arrived, demanding to see you, my lady. I said you were not receiving, but he is very insistent—”
Indeed, Cecile could see Dubois hovering in the doorway.
“My lady!” Dubois called urgently. “I must speak to you!”
The generally unemotional and self-effacing man attempted to shoulder the viscount out of the way.
“Please enter, Monsieur Dubois,” said Cecile, to the disappointment of the viscount, who had been hoping to be able to toss this fellow out on his ear. “That will be all, Viscount.”
The viscount withdrew with a haughty air as though to say the countess could not blame him if she chose to entertain clerks.
Dubois was still wearing his cloak, and carried his hat in his hand. His clothes were wrinkled and mud-stained, and he was puffing, out of breath.
“I beg your pardon for my disheveled appearance, my lad
y,” said Dubois. “But I deemed not a moment must be lost.”
Cecile had known Dubois for many years and had never seen him so disturbed.
“Please be seated. Have you eaten?”
Dubois shook his head. He bowed to D’argent, apologizing for the interruption. Cecile rang for Marie and ordered sandwiches and coffee.
“A drop of brandy,” she suggested.
Dubois took a seat, drank the brandy, and then fanned himself with his hat.
“I have been to Capione,” he said. “I visited the Château de Sauleschant, the estate of this so-called duchess.”
“‘So-called,’” Cecile repeated, the words chilling.
“I will explain,” said Dubois. “But, first, I must tell you who was also there: Sir Henry Wallace.”
“So the duchess is in league with Wallace,” said Cecile, drumming her fingers on the desk.
“No, my lady. I could almost wish that were true,” said Dubois.
He related his tale, telling what he had learned about the duchess at the inn and how he had discovered Wallace and Captain Alan Northrop searching the house. Dubois gave her a word-for-word account of what he overheard them say and finished by describing the gruesome scene in the wine cellar.
Cecile listened in growing horror, so appalled she felt incapable of asking a coherent question. All she could think of was this murderer, Lucello, laying his bloodstained hands upon the princess.
When his tale was concluded, Dubois devoured the sandwiches and drank the coffee.
“We must expose this woman and her accomplice. I must immediately inform His Majesty.”
Cecile was on her feet, ready to go to the king. Dubois rose to prevent her, giving a polite cough of apology as he stepped to place himself in her way.
“Exposure will not be easy, my lady,” he cautioned. “I have no evidence. The duchess will simply deny everything. And I cannot call Sir Henry as a witness,” he added drily.
“You are right, monsieur,” said Cecile, growing calm in an instant. She resumed her chair. “We must find another way. D’argent was just telling me about the duchess’s strange behavior here in the palace. She has been seen making midnight rambles.”
“I found the duchess on the lowest level of the palace last night,” said D’argent. “The scene was exactly as we heard the footman describe. She was in dishabille and claimed to have been there to meet a lover.”
“The bottom of the palace?” Dubois asked, frowning. “She was down there last night and you say she has been down there before?”
“According to the report of a servant,” D’argent replied.
The three sat in silence: Dubois pondering, D’argent wondering, and Cecile trying to decide what to do. Her main concern was for Sophia.
“Whatever else, the princess must be removed from danger. I will take her to my estate— Yes, monsieur?”
She said this to Dubois, who had bounced to his feet with such suddenness he upset the coffee cup he had been balancing on his knee.
“We must go to the ground floor of the palace,” he said. “At once! Not a moment is to be lost!”
“I will be glad to, monsieur,” said Cecile. “I must first send word to the princess—”
“Now!” Dubois shouted. He forgot himself so far as to stamp his foot. “Immediately!”
“Considering what we now know of this woman, I think it would be best if we do as he says, my lady,” said D’argent, troubled. “The lower chamber of the palace is dark and drafty. You should bring a cloak.”
“And lanterns,” said Dubois.
D’argent left to fetch dark lanterns. Cecile rang for her cloak and wrote a note to the Princess Sophia, saying she wished to see her. The three set out, taking the back passages to avoid having to answer questions. Cecile covered her head, concealing her face with the hood of her cloak.
The palace proper had four levels. Each of the towers had an additional two levels. The upper two levels housed the private chambers of the king and queen, and the residences of members of the nobility. Here were the audience rooms, guest rooms, music rooms, ballrooms, galleries, libraries, morning rooms, evening rooms, and so forth. The third level contained the kitchens, pantries, wine cellars, granary, common docks, servants’ quarters, carriage houses, stalls for the royal wyverns and griffins, and the guardsmen’s barracks.
The very bottom level was a large warehouselike chamber that had been specially constructed to house sixteen enormous lift tanks, filled with the liquid form of the Breath known as the Blood of God. The lift tanks were inscribed with magical constructs and operated much like the lift tanks on the royal navy’s new warships to keep the palace floating in the air.
They arrived at the bottom level to find it empty. The crafters had left for the day. There were no windows, and the darkness of the immense room seemed to swallow up the beams of their lights.
“What are we looking for, Dubois?” asked Cecile, gazing around. “What do you suspect that woman was doing down here?”
“I do not know, my lady,” said Dubois grimly. “All I do know is that she is a sorceress who is skilled in contramagic and I very much doubt if she was entertaining a lover among the lift tanks.”
As Dubois and D’argent flashed their lights about the chamber, Cecile saw a large rat skitter out of hiding. She grimaced in disgust and gathered her cloak more closely about her legs.
“What is wrong, my lady?” D’argent asked, noticing her shudder.
“A rat,” Cecile replied. “The thing crawled out from under the tank.”
“You should go back to your chambers, my lady,” said D’argent, glancing down at her low-cut shoes. “You are not dressed for this.”
She gave a dismissive shrug. “I fear we are out of our element here. Perhaps we should summon the royal engineers. They can tell us if something is amiss.”
The royal engineers were crafters expert in the field of engineering magic. They worked down here during the day, checking the levels of the liquid in the tanks, assisting with filling the tanks when necessary, making certain the tanks were functioning properly, and repairing any magical constructs that were starting to break down.
“We will need to provide them with some explanation for why we summoned them, my lady,” Dubois replied. “Otherwise they will think we are lunatics.”
“You are right, of course, monsieur,” said Cecile with a slight smile.
Dubois sent his light stabbing into the darkness, searching the area around the tanks from ceiling to floor and scanning the tanks themselves.
“A fool’s errand, my lady,” D’argent said softly. “We have no idea—”
“What is that?” Cecile cried suddenly, pointing.
Truth to tell, she was more concerned about rats than anything else. She had been nervously watching for rodents when she noticed a faint green glow coming from beneath one of the lift tanks.
Dubois and D’argent hurried to investigate.
“Please stay back, my lady.”
The two men squatted down on the floor, peering underneath the tank, which was mounted on stone supports. Cecile, paying no heed to Dubois’s urging, drew near to see. Dubois went down flat on his stomach, crawled partway under the tank, and carefully and gingerly retrieved something.
He stood up, holding the object in his hand. D’argent shone the lantern on a broken shard of lead crystal about the size of Dubois’s palm. The crystal glowed a faint green. A faint shimmer of green glowed from the constructs that covered the surface of the lift tank.
“You are a crafter, my lady,” said Dubois. “Do you recognize those constructs?”
“You and I have seen them and this green glow before.” She recalled her brush with death with vivid clarity. “They are contramagic. Did they do any damage?”
“I wonder…” Dubois stood in thought a moment, then said, “I believe it is time to summon the chief engineer.”
“The engineers live with their families in quarters in the level above. I will g
o,” D’argent offered.
He left. The countess waited in the darkness, trying to think about contramagic and not rats. Dubois fidgeted beside her, flashing his light around.
“If you do not mind being left alone for a moment, my lady, I would like to check something,” he said at last.
“I will be fine,” said Cecile. She held out her hand. “Before you go, let me see that object.”
“I don’t know, my lady—” Dubois was reluctant. “We have no idea what it does…”
“That was not a request, monsieur,” said Cecile.
Dubois handed over the piece of lead crystal, then left upon his errand. Cecile examined the crystal closely. It appeared to be part of a broken bottle, perhaps a perfume bottle or a bottle containing smelling salts. The constructs etched upon the glass were no thicker than a strand of hair. The workmanship was exquisite, the worker skilled. If Eiddwen had crafted this magic, she had taken a great deal of time and trouble. To what end?
Dubois returned. His expression was grim. “I found the same glow beneath another tank, my lady. I pulled out another piece of crystal. I didn’t check them all, but I’m guessing we’ll find the same beneath each of them.”
D’argent returned with one of the engineers. They had disturbed the man at his supper, apparently, for he was trying to swallow something and wiping his mouth as he came. He was a large man with a full, black beard and a cheerful countenance. He was astonished beyond measure to come upon Cecile down in the depths of the palace. He stared at her, incredulous, then made a flustered bow.
“This is Master Henri,” said D’argent. “Chief engineer. He disparages our discovery.”
Master Henri flushed, embarrassed. “It’s just that some of the lads in the palace sneak down here and get into all manner of mischief, my lady. What you’ve found is likely a broken wine bottle—”
“This is no wine bottle, Master Henri,” said Cecile, and she held out the lead crystal. The green glow was starting to fade. The constructs were barely visible.
Master Henri took the crystal and held it to the light. His thick brows creased.
“I must admit, these constructs are singular, my lady. Still, I wouldn’t put it past those lads—”
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