Shadows of Ivory

by T L Greylock

They exchanged no further words as they returned to the entry hall and Eska opened the door—indeed, the only thing that passed between them under the watchful eye of the armed escort was a stiff nod from Eden, and even that seemed reluctantly given. Eska did not watch them leave.

  She returned to her darkened rooms and began to prepare for her audience with the Archduke. She chose a gown of black silk with a sharply plunging neck that rose up to a high collar that caressed her jaw. Forgoing the usual ornamentation expected for a visit to the Varadome, Eska slid a single ring onto the middle finger of her right hand, the enormous sapphire glowing even in that dim light. She then summoned her maid and sat stiff and straight, unspeaking, while Alize wove intricate braids that pulled Eska’s hair off her neck—a style that complimented the gown’s severe lines and sharp edges.

  “Have you given any thought, my lady,” Alize said as she worked, “to how you would like me to dress your hair for the masquerade?”

  “The masquerade?”

  “Surely you hadn’t forgotten. It’s in three days.”

  She had forgotten. When one is faced with accusations of murder and attempts on one’s life, not to mention killing a monstrous creature at the bottom of a lake, the horrifying death of a friend, and taking a life for the first time, one might be excused for forgetting about something as trivial as a masquerade.

  “I won’t be attending, Alize.”

  If the maid had an opinion on the matter, she knew better than to voice it.

  When Alize finished, Eska was pleased with the reflection she saw in the tall, freestanding mirror. The woman looking back at her was a woman who would not beg for mercy for a crime she did not commit, a woman who could look the Archduke in the eye and know herself to be his equal—a force to be reckoned with.

  ***

  By the time Eska walked the length of the audience chamber, the Archduke watching her every step, the harrow root had forged her into something cold and unbreakable, stronger than iron, more brilliant than the stars in the night sky. The opulence of the painted silk wallpaper, the richness of the embroidered runner beneath her feet, the awe-inspiring beauty of the painted ceiling above—all was insignificant.

  So, too, was the man seated at the Archduke’s left. She did not grant him the courtesy of a glance and her deference to the Archduke was given in the form of the smallest nod.

  “My Lady de Caraval.” The Archduke stood when Eska came to a halt in front of the small dais occupied by two chairs—one of the finest black wood with ornately carved antlers spreading from the backrest to frame the occupant, the second plain and unremarkable.

  Valexi Arcturos de Vauquelin-Preux descended from the dais and took Eska’s hand. He bowed smartly over it. “Welcome home.”

  The visitor on the dais cleared his throat, no doubt intending to suggest that the Archduke ought to be more impartial, but Arcturos ignored the expression of displeasure. He gestured for Eska to take a seat on a bench at the base of the dais and seemed pleased when Eska said she would rather stand.

  “Yes, of course, I don’t imagine we’ll be here very long,” the Archduke said, earning a furious flush on the visitor’s cheeks. “This is, after all, only a preliminary hearing.” As appeasement goes, it was minimal. “My lady, may I introduce the Honorable Rodrigo Scarpia, recently appointed special ambassador to our fair city by my brother-in-rule, the Vismarch of Toridium.” Arcturos gave a bright smile meant to diminish. “Because apparently one ambassador isn’t enough.”

  “Commendatore, I beg you, please grant these proceedings the weight they deserve. My colleague is dead.” Scarpia’s voice was deep and suffused with gravity—but Eska heard unease there, too. As there should be.

  “Ah, yes,” Arcturos said as he released Eska’s hand and returned to his antler throne. “Poor Chancellor Fiorlieu. I assure you, Ambassador, I grieve with you.” Assuredly he did not, but Ambassador Scarpia accepted this falsehood meekly. The Archduke looked back at Eska. “Now, my dear, I imagine you would like to declare your innocence?”

  This was hardly the standard procedure for this type of hearing and the Archduke’s casual approach was clearly irritating the representative of Toridium. Eska smiled inwardly, appreciating the combination of the Archduke’s deft touch and easy apathy.

  “You imagine correctly, Commendatore. While tragic, the Chancellor’s untimely death was an accident, as far as I know.”

  “Your account mentioned that you spoke with him not long before he died, indeed, you speculate you might have been one of the last people to so.” The Archduke sat his throne much like a mountain cat, lithe and athletic, his legs stretched lazily in front of him, one ankle crossed over the other, one arm draped over an armrest. Compared to the stiff posture of Ambassador Scarpia, they were a study in opposites.

  “That is correct,” Eska said. “The Chancellor had complained of stomach pains for some time, the result of which was a considerable delay in our negotiations. I merely sought to offer what relief I could.”

  “And to your knowledge, the Chancellor appears to have followed your advice? Eldergrass and finallian root was it?”

  “I don’t know the answer to that. Others said he did. I have no knowledge of his actions after we parted. As for my advice, yes, it was eldergrass and finallian root.”

  The Archduke smiled. “I have fond memories of imbibing the very same when I had an upset stomach as a child. And by fond, I mean excessively disagreeable.”

  “Indeed, Commendatore,” Eska said, smiling just as easily. “It is a foul remedy and I told the Chancellor as much.”

  “Commendatore, if I may?” Ambassador Scarpia’s deep voice broke through, disturbing the easy back and forth between Eska and Arcturos. She fought back the urge to scowl at him. The Archduke, under no such obligation, waved at him to continue, the gesture dripping with condescension. Scarpia ignored it and plowed onward. “My lady, a witness has come forward swearing to have seen you leave the Chancellor’s private chambers.” All amusement fled from Eska, replaced by icy fury. The ambassador consulted his notes. “According to our timeline of events, corroborated by other servants in the kitchen, this was after the servant made the tea and left it in the Chancellor’s rooms, but before Chancellor Fiorlieu himself returned.”

  Eska had eyes only for the Archduke. “This is a lie, Commendatore. And the first I’ve heard of it, which means it was clearly fabricated after my departure from the city in order to suggest my culpability.”

  The Archduke’s expression remained neutral.

  “Thank you, my lady,” Scarpia said, “for bringing up the matter of your departure. Even you must admit that escaping out a window and disappearing in the middle of the night are the actions of a guilty woman.”

  “On the contrary, Ambassador. They were the actions of a woman far too busy to waste time on lazy conspiracy theories.

  “Why,” Scarpia persisted, “did you have to leave under cover of darkness, my lady? What could not wait until the light of day?”

  “Business matters that are none of your concern.” Eska looked back at the Archduke. “Commendatore, you know my business. You have, in fact, frequently been the beneficiary of Firenzia Company’s work. As you have benefited from the efforts and talents of both my mother and father, who have served Arconia and you faithfully their whole careers. If you believe me capable of such a cold-blooded act, then by all means, send me back to Toridium to face justice. But if you believe these accusations to be false, then I ask you to end this now.”

  The Archduke sighed—again like a cat. “I wish I could, Eska, but a man is dead. A man my dear brother-in-rule cherished for his counsel. And while an Arconian delegation was in residence at the Vismarch’s palace. What kind of brother would I be if I did not do my due diligence in this matter?”

  Afterward, Eska could not have said if she owed the sudden realization she had in that moment to the harrow root or to her own intuition. But in the end it didn’t matter. It hooked into her mind and she could not
rid herself of its barb.

  It was her own mother’s words that fed it, the words Sorina had spoken about the relationship between the Archduke and the Vismarch, the long-concealed chasm between them. Sorina herself had said the Archduke might see fit to use Fiorlieu’s death as an opportunity to change the status quo. Would it be so difficult to imagine Valexi Arcturos de Vauquelin-Preux might go one step beyond that and manufacture that very opportunity?

  It would not.

  Whatever the harrow root’s role in her new understanding, it was, without a doubt, responsible for Eska’s ability to smile pleasantly at the Archduke, her face a smooth mask of innocence and dignity.

  “Of course, Commendatore, I would expect nothing less.”

  “You are wise beyond your years, my lady.” The Archduke straightened in his chair. “I believe that will be all for today,” he began, but Eska, emboldened by her new knowledge, cut him off.

  “If I may, Commendatore?” The harrow root was crowing in her veins, reveling in her recklessness. The Archduke’s eyes narrowed slightly, but he indicated she should continue. “Not only will I prove my innocence to you, I pledge to discover the true culprit. Ambassador Fiorlieu deserves nothing less.”

  The narrowed gaze, nearly imperceptible, lingered a heartbeat too long, then smoothed over as the Archduke smiled and spread his arms expansively. “Your ambition is admirable, my dear. If only your mother could convince you to leave behind your archaeological work and join her staff full time—or your father’s. You would rise quickly, you know. I like to reward talent and initiative.”

  Eska lowered her gaze, at last displaying the modesty that might have been expected from her the moment her name was announced at the door. “You are far too generous with your compliments, Commendatore.”

  The Archduke laughed and began to descend from the dais as though he would accompany Eska out.

  “And how shall we proceed from here, Commendatore?” Ambassador Scarpia’s voice recalled him.

  “The usual way,” Arcturos said dismissively. And with that, he took Eska’s arm.

  It was a curious thing, to walk arm in arm with a man who wanted to sacrifice her to his ambitions. Curious, but not frightening. He might have all the power, but now Eska knew the game.

  Chapter Thirty-Seven

  “I hope it was worth the loss of your integrity and honor.”

  “Should I be worried?”

  Maximilian de Caraval, a matter of moments removed from a meeting with several prominent bankers from Bartok Row and equally little time before his next engagement, had time to look sternly at Eska as they stood in an alcove somewhere within the labyrinth that was the Varadome. Two statues loomed over them, a naked, winged man wielding a spear and a fiendish half-man, half horse—the former in pursuit of the latter.

  The look was stern but only because Maximilian de Caraval’s features were so often arranged in that expression it had taken on a degree of permanency. Eska could see the kindness and warmth in his eyes and that was enough.

  Another daughter with such a father might have taken that opportunity—really, opportunities didn’t get much better than that—to share her theory that the Archduke was framing her for the murder of Chancellor Fiorlieu. The Vice-Chancelier of Arconia would make a formidable ally in the game she was now playing with the Archduke.

  But Eska wasn’t another daughter and she had no intention of drawing her father into an investigation that might result in his utter ruin—not until she had something more than a harrow root-infused theory.

  “Not yet,” she answered brightly. “He’s hiding his true feelings on the matter, but that’s better than condemning me outright, isn’t it?” Maximilian acknowledged this with a nod. “At least I still have my freedom. I can go about my business, which now includes clearing my name.”

  Her father smiled, a hint of mischief creeping into his eyes. “I know my daughter well enough to know when she’s discovered something interesting.” Maximilian leaned in closer as though to keep the statues from listening in. “What did you dig up in Toridium and Cancalo?”

  “Honestly, Papa, sometimes I think you should have gone into business with your younger brother. You have the soul of a man who wants to dig in the dirt.”

  Maximilian laughed. “Fine, keep your secrets.”

  Eska smiled. “I need to consult with Albus. There is a great deal to discuss. But soon I hope to be able to share what I have found.”

  Father and daughter said their goodbyes, then Eska began to work her way back through the many wings of the Varadome. So intent was she on reaching Albus at the Lordican, she nearly walked straight into another woman as they each rounded a corner.

  Eska pulled herself up, pulled her thoughts together, and began to apologize—but the words never left her mouth. She was about to apologize to a woman she thought imprisoned, a woman who had tried to blow up her ship.

  Manon Barca looked as startled as Eska felt. Her gaze searched over Eska’s shoulder, as if hoping for an escape route. For Eska’s part, she realized she was searching for armed guards rushing in pursuit of this person who had clearly escaped custody.

  Fruitless searches, both.

  “Lady de Caraval.”

  “Madam Barca.”

  Both women performed elegant expressions of courtesy they did not feel.

  “I’m surprised to know there were sufficient funds in the Barca coffers to pay your way into the Archduke’s good graces.”

  The woman’s smile was devoid of warmth. “Money isn’t the answer to everything. But I wouldn’t expect you to understand that.”

  What Eska did understand was two-fold. First, the only thing Manon Barca might have to offer the Archduke were her Carrier skills. And second, Alexandre de Minos had broken his word.

  They broke apart from each without another word and Eska continued her exit from the Varadome, her mind on an edge sharper than it had been that night she decided to escape from Toridium, boiling with thoughts of the Archduke and his schemes, of Eden San-Germain, of Manon Barca walking free and the implications of that, of Gabriel’s death, of her uncle’s stormy visit, of Alexandre de Minos, of a blade piercing a man’s chest and ending his life—all swelling under the influence of the harrow root.

  On one point Eska was clear, at least. She needed to see Albus.

  And yet the Varadome was not through with her.

  In an attempt to vacate the premises as quickly as possible, she slipped through a minor entrance in the government wing, passing through a courtyard and then into a garden so full of statues it looked like the place the stewards chose to stash all the statues they didn’t know what to do with. And it was there, surrounded by dancing men and warrior women, by rearing horses and leaping lions, just as she decided she would be better off turning around and finding a proper exit, that Eska saw perhaps the most inexplicable thing she had seen that day—which was saying something.

  Tucked behind a tall hedge to the right of the wide lane of statues, indeed, surrounded on all sides by hedges, was a large patch of burned ground. Blackened and charred and smelling still of smoke. Eska looked over her shoulder, saw no one, and poked her head through the narrow opening between the hedges.

  The empty, burned ground stretched out before her. It was littered with remnants of things made of wood. Splinters and shards, some the length of Eska’s arm, lay scattered across the charred earth.

  Targets.

  The word came to Eska suddenly.

  This was a training ground. Not for swords or arrows or cavalry maneuvers. A training ground for people who could wield fire.

  Manon Barca walking free suddenly made a great deal more sense.

  ***

  “What do you mean he isn’t here?”

  It was not that Eska didn’t understand the words the pale young woman had uttered, it was that they defied Albus’s very existence.

  “Albus Courtenay,” Eska said. “You’re sure you know who I mean? Slender, prominent nose, dark ha
ir? Has an irritating habit of being right?”

  The young woman stared at Eska as though she had two heads. “The only Albus Courtenay I know hasn’t been here in weeks.” She returned to her stack of books and left Eska standing in the middle of the reading room. Albus’s favorite reading room.

  Eska looked over at the statue of Lyndronicus. “If you’d seen him, would you tell me?”

  Certainly not.

  Eska hurried after the young woman, who was headed back toward the public stacks. “Are you quite certain? Is he ill? Did no one think to check his home? I should go myself. How could I be so thoughtless? He could be lying dead for all we know.”

  The librarian didn’t slow. “What home? Albus gave up his place nearly a year ago. Preferred the dormitory, he said. Between you and me, he’s a little odd.”

  “Oh, I am aware,” Eska said as she tried to follow the librarian through a small doorway.

  The librarian stopped. “You’re not allowed back here.” She wedged her shoulder into the doorway and Eska had to step back to avoid being stepped on.

  “Yes, but this is important. Could I just speak with your superior, please? Or Master Diomede?”

  The librarian took another step toward Eska, nearly shoving her stack of books into Eska’s throat. Eska leaned back, and with unanticipated quickness, the woman stepped back through the door. It shut loudly, a final reprimand.

  The knowledge that Albus had given up his small apartment—and so long ago!—without thinking of mentioning it to Eska sank in slowly as she stood in the empty corridor. She was about to curse Albus for his stubbornness, but was silenced by the thought that perhaps she might have known had she only asked him about something, anything, that couldn’t be found in the ground or in a book.

  For the first time since leaving Arconia weeks before, Eska was unmoored. Even through the turmoil of Toridium and the trials of Cancalo, through Perrin’s illness and Gabriel’s death, even that very day, in the wake of the death-shadowed moments in the park, the visits from her uncle and Eden San-Germain, her audience with the Archduke, and the unexpected confrontation with Manon Barca, she had carried with her the certainty that Albus would be waiting for her in the bowels of the Lordican. Bedraggled, brilliant, beloved Albus—whose mind could help her unpack everything cluttering her own. His absence was a physical blow.