Quartz (25 page)

“What a fool that L’Amagio was. An escapist who couldn’t face the realities of life.” With a dismissive gesture, Leo wheeled himself over to the next painting. “I much prefer Belana-tri and Virsuth. They never pined for mega-lamps in the sky or tried to grow gardens on the surface of the Barrens.” Leo glared up at the next painting, a portrait of some noblewoman who’d lived during the sartorial period that Rocquespur still inhabited, with a lace ruff around her neck and hooped skirts, as if she were to blame for L’Amagio’s fancies.

Rafe, who rather liked the L’Amagio, said, “Perhaps that painting is prescient. Perhaps the Barrens will bloom, once we uncover the Tors Lumena.”

“Not still pining after those womanish fancies, are you, boy?” Leo frowned at Rafe and rolled over to the next piece of art, a sculpture of wire and glass drops entitled “Woman Dancing”.

“Sir, think about it. How will we feed Ironheart as well as Oakhaven? People are protesting in the streets over rationing. Just yesterday a cart carrying vegetables overturned in the Tin District and a mob descended upon the mess and picked it clean! Was it a mere accident?” Rafe tried to signal urgent appeal with his eyes, but Leo’s stubborn gaze was fixed firmly on what could—given the right angle and lighting—pass for an impression of a woman.

Rafe fell silent and followed Leo from artwork to artwork. His uncle’s mind was not on what he saw, his starts and stops jerky, his look falling distracted and barely-seeing on blue-glazed pottery and sculpture made from recycled machine parts.

“And what do you desire me to do about the situation?” Leo finally asked, yielding to his nephew’s expectant silence, but with a hint of indulgent exasperation.

“Give me the Keys.” Isabella’s words nagged at him—
he’ll never let you traipse off with the
Keys—but he forged ahead, anyway. He had to try. “Give me a few trusted men. Let me go into the Barrens and find the Tors Lumena for Oakhaven.”

“Have the fires of Ironheart scorched your senses, Rafe?” Leo looked as if he might stand up, face suffused with red, stature grown bigger with ire. “Risk the Keys out in the Barrens where anything—
anything
—could happen to them? What if Blackstone forces found you? Or there was an earthquake? Those treasures are too precious to risk out in the wilderness. Scorch it, keeping them in my own house under lock was not even protection from that thieving woman of Rocquespur’s! And now he’s got the Ironheart Key, as well!”

“But what good are they doing us here, Uncle?” Rafe stood his ground. His uncle
would
see, if he could find the right words. He’d prove Isabella wrong about Leo. “When they were novelties, yes, then you could display them or lock them up as you choose. But they are keys to something bigger and greater. We
need
more quartz. We
need
light. The Keys will lead us to both.”

“Might, Rafe,
might
. A might based on the fearful prattles of some old man. And the moonshine nonsense of your aunt. Goldmoon myths! I’m not about to risk my Keys on a might.”

“Ironheart burned for those prattles.” Rafe crossed his arms.

“Ironheart burned because of vengeance.” Leo wheeled around so fast that Rafe had to sidestep to avoid being slammed by the chair. “And the Keys are needed here. Now that I have four, we may be able to activate the defenses the mages left behind under this very building. If Blackstone attacks, the mage’s devices
here
in Oakhaven will protect us, not some illusion out in the Barrens. And you are needed here, too.” He raked Rafe with a cold hard look. “Unless you have no care for the Crown or your cousin Tristan?”

“What do you mean, Uncle?”

“Officially, you’re on leave. No, don’t protest at me quite yet.” Leo raised a hand. “You are best positioned to do something for us.”

Rafe waited.

Leo’s hands clenched around the arms of his chair. “We have reason to believe that foreign interests have started to meddle at a higher level than before in the internal affairs of Oakhaven. You heard about Dunbridge?”

Rafe nodded. Tristan’s former tutor and minder had been quietly removed from his position. “Tristan told me about his gambling debts.”

“He’d been selling access to the Prince, taking bribes for bringing Tristan to certain parties, throwing him in the way of certain people.” Leo sighed heavily. “We’ve always known that foreign powers have bought out some of our own people—indeed, some are useful for feeding misinformation back to their masters. We do the same in other states. But what’s been going on here—the havoc caused by the antimachinists for one, several classified documents going awry, information leaking who knows where.” Leo shook his head. “This is just to give you the big picture. You’re supposed to be on leave. There’s no need for you to be involved in all of that just yet.”

Rafe made a sudden gesture, a sharp intake of breath, quickly stifled.

Leo paused, then continued. “Yes, you are still a junior assistant, still new to the ministry. No matter what your relationship to me is, no matter how much I trust you and your abilities, certain information must be kept to as few as possible. According to many of my colleagues, I’m probably telling you more than I ought to, even now. But you need to know the gravity of the situation, so that you view your task as more than an old man’s way of keeping you out of trouble.”

“Which is?” put in Rafe, when Leo had been silent for a while. His uncle must be very worried, even more worried than the two deep lines furrowing his brow indicated.

“I need you to keep an eye on Prince Tristan. I think—I fear—that a foreign power might be trying to eliminate our Machine.”

“By taking out Tristan? It’s Roland they need to worry about.”

“Roland is better guarded and fiercely pro-Machine. And he only has one son. With Tristan out of the way, Roland has few choices for an heir, and he’ll be vulnerable to an internal attack. He’s not made himself very popular at home. Our foreign foes may think that the antimachinists will take care of Roland, who they view as some kind of Arch-Machinist, if their fear-mongering propaganda is to be believed.”

“By foreign powers, do you mean Blackstone, sir?”

“Possibly. They are the likeliest of villains, aren’t they? But Ironheart has reason to hate us, as well. And we’ve
coexisted
with Clearwater fairly peaceably for the last hundred years, but that doesn’t mean that one of us wouldn’t take the opportunity to gain a clear advantage. Even Shimmer might take an interest.”

“Why stop there, sir? Why not suspect the Trans-Point States? Or non-state entities, like the antimachinists?”

“Because, dear Rafe, those possibilities have been ruled out. Would you like to come to my office and go through all the documentation we’ve gathered so you can set your mind at rest that the traveling performers are not plotting to take over our government and impose obligatory fire-dancing sessions on the citizens?” Leo’s tone was weary rather than acerbic.

Rafe flushed, though a small part of him insisted that an intelligence agent
ought
to be suspicious and ask questions. Uncle Leo had taught him that. “No, sir.”

“Very well, then. You’re the best man we have to keep a close eye on Tristan without him suspecting. He’s always looked up to you. And if you find anything suspicious, anyone in his circle who seems out of place, let me know at once.” Leo checked his pocket watch. “Almost time with my meeting with the First Minister.” He made a face. Dewfleur was a consummate politician, more interested in popularity than policy. “And Rafe?”

“Yes, sir?”

“Your hair, boy, your hair.” Leo disappeared down the hall, whispering over the plush carpet.

That made two people today. He really must need a trim. Rafe tried to smooth down his hair, using the shiny surface of a spherical sculpture as a mirror, then gave up and went downstairs to the gentleman’s nook.

The man in the gleaming mirror in front of him still bore the signs of recent stress in the lines around his mouth and a certain hardness of the eyes. After gelling down his hair, Rafe glanced at the cosmetics on the wide marble counter. Pots of pomade, powder and rouge, trays of patches, jars of fine-tipped soft-bristled brushes. No. He had never been a fop and any inexpert attempts to disguise his tiredness or conceal his scars would only draw attention to himself.

The curtain behind him rustled, was pulled aside, and the Marquis of Rocquespur's face appeared in the mirror beside Rafe's.

Rafe went very still. He forced himself to unclench his fist and pick up his comb from the counter.

Rocquespur gave him a quick glittering black-eyed glance, and Rafe nodded a wordless hello. A cloud of stinging scent enveloped the Marquis wherever he went. Rafe picked out lavender and cinnamon before his nose packed up and went to hide.

Rocquespur applied rouge to cheeks and lips with a fastidious, feminine hand. Rafe kept his gaze from cutting to Rocquespur’s face in a kind of horrified amusement. Rocquespur’s wig was a cascade of tightly-coiled curls framing a face powdered a dead white. Black patches adorned his face, including one shaped like a lantern and the size of Rafe's thumb on one whitened cheek. A hideously ugly garnet brooch glared out from its bed of gold and violet lace at Rocquespur’s throat. The rest of his attire was no better; his jacket was plum, with full pleated skirts and giant gold buttons carved into monstrous faces, his long purple waistcoat clashed with the violet lace, and his loose knee-breeches were too yellow to match the gold ruffles. He wore his signature diamond-buckled red high heels, putting him to Rafe's height.

Rafe nearly reeled from the cumulative effect of what Rocquespur considered to be appropriate legislative garb. To Rafe’s overpowered eye, he looked as if dressed in the dark—or was completely colorblind. For years, young bucks had speculated as such. He wondered why the beautiful and always well-dressed Sable Monarique hadn’t stepped in to attire her patron in more suitable clothes. Rafe tried to picture Rocquespur in the understated charcoal grays and sooty blacks of current men’s fashions and failed miserably as he waited for the Marquis to either say something or leave. He didn’t trust himself to begin a conversation with courtesy while simmering over the recent vote.

Rocquespur tipped out snuff from an enameled box onto the back of his hand and inhaled the fine powder. Rafe looked away as the Marquis wiped the brown powder off his face and hand with a handkerchief of yet another shade of purple. Brown flecked the pristine marble counter. Only the aristocratic refugees of Goldmoon—the self-styled "true citizens" who had fled the revolutionary regime of Blackstone—persisted in using snuff. And Rocquespur. Perhaps he was related to Goldmoon nobility somehow. His background wasn’t detailed in the Oakhaven
Peerage
, which usually meant he’d risen to his current position from the ignominy of the middle class.

"Well, young Grenfeld." The Marquis spoke in a voice made hazy and hoarse from years of snuff and smoking. "It looks like your uncle may soon be looking for other employment. The Dewfleur government is on shaky ground." There was a sneer in his tone.

That was the Marquis—no subtlety, no charm, no effort to be anything other than unpleasant. The effect did everything to set people's backs up.

So Rafe countered it by being his most pleasant. "I'm sure Uncle Leo would like nothing else than to work on cataloguing his art collection and continue his studies. But I doubt Dewfleur’s fall would affect him much. Because if it
did
happen before elections, the King would form an interim government and I’m sure Uncle Leo would be appointed to the cabinet again. Perhaps even as Minister of Internal Affairs.” Rafe smiled with relish at the idea. That would give Leo more authority to look into Rocquespur's affairs. Mercersmith, the current Minister, was squarely in Rocquespur's money-pouch.

Rocquespur's sneer stayed, but all the pleasantness was gone from it, leaving a fixed snarl. His canines were painted red, giving him the look of one who had just finished drinking blood. “Yes, more power would suit Leonius Grenfeld very well. But would he wield it wisely or not? And that young Rafael, is something
you
might have to decide sooner than you think.”

His words needled Rafe more than they ought to have. Putting on his most sweetly vindictive smile, he met Rocquespur’s hard black eyes, so like Isabella’s, in the mirror. “I’m sure many would agree with me when I say that Uncle Leo’s leadership is preferable to that of some others I will not name.” Rocquespur could not miss the insinuation, but the man's eyelashes barely flickered.

Instead, he gave Rafe a pitying look. "I suppose there are some things one must discover for oneself." He left before Rafe could shoot off a reply.

The comb Rafe had been holding broke with a snap. With a sharp sigh, Rafe tossed the pieces into the wastebasket and left to find Prince Tristan.

R
AFE STROLLED INTO THE
palace conservatory halfway between Pollen and Fruit. He raised his eyebrow at Tristan, dressed in just an undershirt and leggings, standing on a plinth. A fussy little man ran around him with a tape measure.

“Don’t ask,” said Tristan, sourly. “In fact, don’t say
anything
.”

The fussy man squeaked, “Your left arm, please, Your Highness!” and whipped the tape measure around Tristan’s wrist and elbow, then darted away, making notations on a small pad of paper.

Rafe leaned against the doorframe. “I’ll just enjoy the view, then, shall I?”

Tristan snorted. After a few minutes of dignified silence, filled with more measuring, he said, disgusted, “This is so that they can make a sculpture of me without my being here. Though why they bother is beyond me. The time I’ve spent just standing here, being bent into unnatural angles, they could’ve just used to sculpt me from life. Yesterday they took a mold of my head, including my face. My face! I had to sit there, not moving a muscle for an hour! I’m lucky that they thought to leave me some air holes, I suppose.”

“It’s all part of the royal privilege, Tristan. Leaving several representations of yourself littering the palace so that posterity can properly honor you.”