The Ships of Air (The Fall of Ile-Rein) (27 page)

Ilias scratched his chest absently, still thinking it over. “But how did he get here? Could a Gardier really have come off the island with us?” After the improbability of being here and of surviving all these years, killing one more poisoning wizard seemed ridiculously easy; it was frustrating that they couldn’t find him.

“A Gardier spy could have come aboard at Chaire, with the other refugees,” Tremaine admitted. “But that was a last-minute change of plans, so he would have gotten the chance more by luck than anything else.” She steepled her fingers. “I don’t believe in luck.”

Ilias lifted a brow at her, and Giliead snorted wryly. “What?” she demanded.

“You live on nothing but luck,” Ilias told her fondly.

“It’s careful planning,” she insisted, apparently serious. “I am not a lucky person.”

Giliead rolled over and stretched. “If it is a Gardier wizard, why not do the same as a Syprian wizard would and poison everyone on the ship?”

Ilias shrugged. “The same reason. He can’t sail this ship alone, even with—what was his name?—Bain and all his family’s help.” The tour through the lower decks had brought home just how complex a task it would be.

“That’s one reason,” Giliead agreed. He sat up on his elbows, squinting against the setting sun to see Tremaine. “He must have killed the prisoners because he didn’t want them to talk to you. But why try to make Bain help him?”

“He needs the help of another wizard for something else,” Ilias said, not liking the idea.

Tremaine’s brow furrowed. “If we can get past the stupid Walls, we’ll reach Capidara in three days. In two days we should be close enough to go through the etheric gateway and finish the rest of the trip in our world, since the Gardier don’t have Capidara blockaded yet. He doesn’t have much time.”

Giliead lifted a brow, considering. “He may try for the Gardier woman. Or if Bain hasn’t told you everything, if his father lied—”

“We need to be there tonight, in the healer’s rooms.” Ilias met his eyes, understanding completely. It had been a frustrating day, and they were both ready to finish this off.

“Of course, he’ll expect that.” Tremaine sounded as if she preferred it that way.

S
o we’re not having much luck, though I suppose we could turn up another Bain.” Tremaine shrugged, sitting on the leather-clad arm of a chair. “We wanted to try a trap.”

“Niles and I were considering something of the sort. It’s obvious the woman will continue to be a target.” Gerard polished his spectacles, the calculation in his eyes belying the absent gesture. Gerard and Niles had taken over the First Class smoking room as a work area and laboratory. Tremaine had never been there before and was unsurprised to find it as opulent as the ship’s other public rooms. The high ceiling rose to a dome and the walls were paneled in dark woods framed with strips of copper banding. The overstuffed red leather club chairs stood about on an inlaid stone-tile floor, and Parscian carved screens framed the marble hearth. Now two of the blocky tables had been pulled into the center of the room and were stacked with books, papers, beakers and flasks, jars of herbs and powders and crystals. Several charts with incomprehensible figures and glyphs partly covered a surrealist seascape, and an easel had been put up in one corner to support a chalkboard. Wooden crates were stacked against the opposite wall, a few pried open to reveal more books. With no space restrictions to worry about, Niles must have brought the Viller Institute’s entire research library and all the sorcerous paraphernalia there had been time to haul aboard. Gerard lifted his brows. “But of course—”

Tremaine finished the thought, “He has to know we’ll be waiting for him.”

“Yes. Our opponent will have to be aware of that. But he also may feel he doesn’t have a choice.” Gerard paced a few steps. He had the drawn look that Tremaine saw in the mirror, that everyone on the ship seemed to wear now. Considering Gerard hadn’t had more than a few hours’ sleep in the past three days, it was a miracle he was on his feet at all. “If we present Balin with evidence that one of her own people killed her companions, it could go a long way toward making her more forthcoming. He’ll want to prevent that at all cost.”

Tremaine nodded, running a distracted hand through her hair and wincing at the odor of engine oil that came away on her fingers. Ilias and Giliead had gone on to the dining room, on the grounds that setting the trap meant they would probably be up all night again and they might as well do it on full stomachs. Suddenly what Gerard had said penetrated, and she glanced up, frowning. “Wait, who’s Balin?”

“The Gardier woman. That’s her name.” Gerard regarded her thoughtfully. “Did you not want to know?”

Tremaine gave him a thin smile. “I don’t care if they all had names, children and gray-haired old mothers wasting away waiting for their return.”

Gerard’s expression grew sardonic, but he continued, “Of course, our opponent may not have counted on Giliead’s unique abilities. Gervas did say that they were only able to detect two sorcerers on the
Swift
, myself and Arisilde’s sphere. Unless this saboteur is somehow able to get access to our conferences, he may not realize Giliead has any special power at all.”

Tremaine eyed him thoughtfully, swinging her leg against the table. “You think Giliead’s a sorcerer, whether he knows it or not?”

“It’s one theory. I think the Syprian gods are actually selecting potential sorcerers. The Chosen Vessels learn to use their magic with the god’s help, and possibly with some assistance from other Vessels?” He glanced at her for confirmation.

Tremaine nodded slowly. “They said there were journals, left by older Vessels.”

“Just so. Those who aren’t Chosen either let their potential lapse or learn to perform small harmless charms, probably without realizing it, that never draw the attention of the gods or the Vessels. And others find a rogue sorcerer to learn from and turn themselves into abominations like Ixion.” He stopped pacing, regarding her thoughtfully. “I wouldn’t mention this theory to any of the Syprians.”

Tremaine snorted. “No, really.”

“But to get back to tonight.” Gerard gestured with his spectacles. “The Gardier, as far as we can tell, seem to disregard the Syprians completely, so the saboteur may not regard Giliead’s presence in the hospital as a deterrent.”

“Speaking of deterrents…” Tremaine said reluctantly. “Any idea why Arisilde didn’t do anything to stop this?”

Gerard frowned. “No, not yet.”

She let out a worried breath. “I don’t think Averi and Ander really understand what he’s capable of.”

“I tried to use the sphere to cast a ward around the hospital this afternoon. Niles tried with it as well. We both failed. Niles has used his own sphere, but it simply isn’t as powerful as Arisilde.” Gerard regarded her grimly. “I suspect Arisilde doesn’t feel he should waste his strength in protecting Gardier.”

“Damn it.” Tremaine shook her head. “I was afraid of that. It could mean he’s not as all there as we thought, in which case…”
We’re trusting our lives to a crazy man trapped in a metal ball
. She rubbed her eyes.
Maybe I don’t want to kill myself anymore not because Arisilde was trying to communicate with me from the sphere, but because I’ve gone insane
.

They sat there in glum silence for a moment, then Gerard shook his head. “There’s not much we can do now, except try to stop this Gardier.”

Tremaine chewed her lip, distracted. “We’re sure we’re dealing with a Gardier, then?”

Gerard frowned. “No. We’re not.”

T
remaine got to the dining hall in time to eat with Giliead and Ilias, then by common consent they headed back to the cabin. Tremaine was hoping to be able to grab a nap, since it was going to be a long night.

But when they reached the cabin Tremaine saw Pasima and Cletia were occupying two of the chairs in the main room, with Sanior sitting at their feet. She groaned mentally and heard Ilias mutter, “Oh, good.” Giliead just set his face in a stony expression.

The three Syprians must have been having a conversation, but the talk stopped when they saw Tremaine and the others enter the foyer. Cletia and Sanior looked uncomfortable, but Pasima had her Ice Queen face on. Tremaine meant to plow through the room without acknowledging any of them and had almost made it to the sliding doors when Pasima said, “A word, Tremaine, if you please.”

Tremaine stopped with one hand on the door, the sanctuary of the back area of the cabin teasingly within sight.
Oh, why not.
“I can think of a few choice ones,” she said, turning around. “That lifeboat drill was being conducted by an officer of this ship. Would you behave that way to one of your own captains?”

Everyone looked startled except Ilias, who leaned against the wall as if making himself comfortable for a long siege, and Pasima, who looked annoyed. She snapped, “I didn’t want to risk exposing myself to your curses.”

Giliead, who had planted himself in the middle of the room with his arms folded, still stone-faced, told her, “If the ship sinks, you can congratulate yourself on your purity on the bottom of the ocean.”

Pasima’s lip curled. “Cursed ships don’t sink, more’s the pity.”

“All our others have,” Tremaine retorted.

“So you’ve told us.” Pasima eyed her. “No one has seen evidence of this.”

“Evidence?” Ilias broke in with a derisive laugh. “Are we supposed to take you to the sea bottom to look for it?”

Pasima stood, her lips tightening. “The only one who has seen this land you come from is him.” She jerked her head at Ilias as if pointing at him or saying his name would contaminate her. “A man with a curse mark who coincidentally is taken in marriage by you—”

“So Pella of the Cineth council is on our side? Because that’s not the impression I got,” Tremaine interrupted, her anger rising with dangerous speed. She had the feeling she was seeing Pasima’s real face here, the one that Ilias and the others had seen all along. “And if you’re suggesting the Rienish government chose me to bribe Ilias to silence, then I have to say they don’t share your taste in courtesans.” About 90 percent of that was an insult to herself, but never mind. “If you think we’re lying to you, why did you come on the damn trip in the first place?”

Pasima drew breath to reply and stopped suddenly, the words unsaid, flicking a wary glance at Giliead.

Tremaine stared at her for a long moment.
Ah. I understand why they’re here now
.
Why she’s here.
Pasima meant to prove Giliead wrong, to show that the Rienish sorcerers were as dangerous to the Syprians as their own wizards. Her voice tight, she said, “So we bribed Ilias with me, what did we bribe Giliead with? And the god? It didn’t strike me as being big on material possessions.” Pasima didn’t answer. “Well?”

Studying Pasima thoughtfully, Giliead said, “That’s what she’s here to find out.”

“I see. It was brave of you to admit it,” Tremaine assured her. “Wait, you didn’t, did you?” She turned for the door, knowing if she stayed any longer, she would be hurling objects at Pasima’s head. “Let’s go.”

She would have felt fairly stupid if nobody followed her, but Ilias and Giliead both did. Once they were out in the corridor, she snapped, “How long have you known that?”

Ilias looked at Giliead, who shrugged, saying, “Since she was chosen to come. Gyan, Karima and Halian all knew it too.”

“Great.” Tremaine put both hands in her hair, a symbolic gesture to keep the top of her head from exploding. “And you didn’t think to mention it?” Being an ambassador, even a lousy ambassador, was a lot harder than she had thought.

Ilias again looked at Giliead, who lifted a brow, shifting the conversational burden back. Ilias thought about it a moment, then said with apparently honest curiosity, “What could you have done about it?”

Tremaine let out her breath and gave up. “Good question.”

T
hey ended up back in the main hall, Tremaine curled in a corner of the couch with Ilias sprawled next to her and Giliead on the floor in front of them. The large room was nearly empty except for a small group of refugees seated on the other cluster of couches and a couple of weary-looking young officers near the corridor down to the Observation bar. The crystal-covered lights were turned low, though the entrances to the Promenade deck on either side of the chamber had been closed off with curtained doors. To Tremaine the place had a late-night, much-used feel, like a theater after the show was over. All that was missing was the scent of stale smoke and wine.

Avoiding the subject of Pasima, Tremaine had told them about her hopes for Arisilde. “So I think it makes sense. Arisilde needs a body, Ixion knows how to make bodies.”

“He won’t give you the curse, not willingly,” Giliead said, eyeing her thoughtfully.

“
Willingly
is the key word.” Tremaine shrugged, well aware it wasn’t going to be easy but not ready to admit it. “He’s a sorcerer who treated with the Gardier. We execute enemy sorcerers. Or we would, if we could catch any. When we get to the government-in-exile, they’re going to need a reason to keep wasting someone’s time warding a prison for him.”

Giliead lifted a brow. “It won’t do any good to kill him if he just goes back to another body hidden on the island somewhere.”

“That’s the part where it gets tricky,” Tremaine admitted.

Ilias frowned. “How is the god going to get out of the sphere and into the body?”

“He’s not a god.” Tremaine gestured, frustrated. “And I don’t know that part yet. It’s just an idea.”

“We never bargain with wizards,” Ilias told her firmly. “It’s a good way to get your insides boiled.”

Giliead contemplated the scuffed tile floor. “You think your friend would want that?”

Tremaine knew he wasn’t talking about getting their insides boiled. She rubbed at a worn spot on the upholstery, avoiding his eyes. “After he’s got a body, he can tell me.”

“Who’s this?” Ilias asked, looking at something above her head.

“What?” Tremaine stared. After a moment she realized Giliead was looking expectantly in the same direction. She twisted awkwardly around. A young girl was standing behind the couch, smiling tentatively. She had long reddish brown hair braided neatly back, and her plain blue coat and skirt, white stockings and sensible shoes all spoke of a boarding school.

She said, “Hello. I’m Olympe Fontainon.”

“Oh.
Oh.
” Tremaine blinked, staring up at her as the light dawned. There were two men in dark tweed suits standing a short distance away regarding the refugees, the officers, the Syprians and Tremaine with equal suspicion. They had to be Queen’s Guards, members of the traditional personal bodyguard for the queens of Ile-Rien.

The Princess Olympe sat down on the marble-topped cocktail table next to the couch, crossing her legs neatly and looking even more like a child. Tremaine, who had never followed the court much, tried to remember how old she was and failed. “I wanted to see them,” the girl explained to Tremaine, looking at Ilias and Giliead again. “I’ve heard so much.”

“Right.” Tremaine ran a hand through her hair, trying to gather her thoughts. Ilias nudged her impatiently with a foot, and she said in Syrnaic, “This is Olympe, the…” she fumbled for the right words, “the Matriarch’s first daughter, one of her heirs.” She turned back to Olympe, switching to Rienish, “This is Ilias of Andrien and Giliead of Andrien, the god’s Chosen Vessel.”
My husband and my brother-in-law. Right
. That one was still taking some getting used to.

“I heard you have a criminal sorcerer locked up somewhere below,” Olympe said matter-of-factly, as if she discussed such things every day. Considering who her mother was, she just might.

“Not me personally, but yes,” Tremaine agreed.

“But he’s not a Gardier?”

“No.”

“I’ve never seen a Gardier.” She sounded somewhat glum about it.
I hope you never do,
Tremaine thought, not wanting to imagine the circumstances under which that meeting would occur. Before she could reply, Olympe added, “I wanted to go ashore and see the native city, but of course no one would let me.”

Tremaine opened her mouth to say something placating about after the war, but met the girl’s direct gaze. “Well, if you learn Syrnaic, they can tell you all about it.” Inspiration struck, and she added, “One thing you could do. You could ask to meet and speak with Pasima, the head of the delegation the Syprians are sending to your mother’s government. Florian or I could translate for you.” Yes, she wanted to turn an adolescent Fontainon princess loose on Pasima. Yes, indeed.

“I could do that. I could do
something
.” Olympe looked at Tremaine, her head cocked to one side. “You’re Tremaine Valiarde. Was your father Nicholas Valiarde?”

Tremaine hesitated warily. This was always a problematic question. “Yes.”

“My mother knew him. She cried when they said he was dead, then she said he was probably only pretending again,” the princess informed her earnestly.

Tremaine became aware her mouth was open. She had been about to say that her father couldn’t possibly have known the Queen, but the bit about “only pretending” had rather put paid to that.
She knew him, all right,
she thought grimly. Knew things nobody should know, just like Reynard Morane did.

Olympe looked away, her young face turning shadowed. “Everyone thought she sent me here because she didn’t love me, because she thought the ship would sink. But she sent her two cats with me, and her favorite maid Amiase, and a copy of the Royal Charter that’s three hundred years old and the crown that King Fulstan wore at his coronation. The cats are in my room with Amiase, and Count Delphane tried to put the Charter and the crown in the ship’s safe, but the cases were too big so they’re under Captain Marais’s bed.”

Trying to make sense of the rapid flow of words, Tremaine abruptly put two and two together. “She let Reynard Morane stay behind in the city.” The man who had been Captain of the Queen’s Guard for years, who must be a trusted advisor. Her stomach felt tight from tension.
The Queen doesn’t think she’ll make it to Parscia.
Olympe wasn’t here as part of a chancy contingency plan, she was the only plan, the only hope. The Queen and the rest of the royal family were acting as decoys for the party aboard the
Ravenna
.

“Yes. There were others. She sent them ahead, or to other places.” Olympe stared at her, blinking suddenly brimming eyes. “She looked at me and she looked at my brother and she picked me. I don’t know how I feel about that.”

“Don’t count your older brother out yet,” Tremaine said with grim wryness. “Trains can make unscheduled stops.” It wasn’t an idle hope. In the long history of Ile-Rien, its monarchs had either been useless victims or clever manipulators who carried themselves grandly through disaster. That last look might not have been a choice between which child the Queen loved best, but between which child would fare better on a cross-country hike.

“You think so?” Olympe wiped at her eyes.

Tremaine hovered between reassurance and raw truth, and had to go with truth. “I don’t know. But it wasn’t your choice.”

One of the men came forward, stooping to touch Olympe’s sleeve, saying with a combination of diffidence and parental authority, “My lady, it’s late. You should go back to your cabin now.”

Obediently getting to her feet, Olympe asked Tremaine, “Are you going back to your cabin?”

“Uh, no. We have something to do later.”

G
iliead had suggested faking a fight in a public room, preferably the main hall, and that Ilias could pretend to stab him. Not to be outdone, Ilias had offered to actually stab Giliead for verisimilitude. Tremaine had rejected both embellishments to the plan, knowing they were only making fun of her for offering them some fake blood, a concept they found hilarious, from her stage makeup box.

She had to admit that pretending a fall and a minor knee injury was easier and more suitable to their needs. It was just serious enough to warrant going to the hospital but not urgent enough to require Niles or Gerard for immediate sorcerous healing. So Giliead obligingly tumbled down a narrow stair in the Second Class area, and Ilias helped him to the hospital, Tremaine trailing along behind.

The guards Averi had posted at the entrance let them pass, and Giliead limped down the green metal passage to the office area. A tall gaunt man glanced up from the clipboard he was studying. Tremaine recognized him vaguely as the army surgeon. “We think it’s his knee,” she explained. There were two soldiers there as well, stationed by the door to the wardroom occupied by the last Gardier prisoner.

No one but Dr. Divies had been told there would be extra patients tonight who wouldn’t necessarily need medical services. The surgeon handed the clipboard off to a tired-looking nurse, telling her, “Get him to a bed, please, Miss Calere.” Then he reached for the telephone. “Niles is still watching the kitchens? I’ll call Gerard then.”

Only emergency cases, crew members and military personnel were supposed to get their injuries tended by Niles or Gerard; Tremaine should have realized the military doctor would include the Syprians in the last category. “Oh, no, the Syprians really don’t like sorcerous healing,” she said hurriedly, trying not to wince at how fatuous she sounded. “It’s against their religious beliefs. If you could just get Dr. Divies to look at it?”

The surgeon hesitated, frowning and probably thinking she was insane. Then he reluctantly set the receiver back on the cradle. “Very well.”

Ilias and Giliead had heard him say the sorcerers’ names, and both hesitated, watching Tremaine, despite the nurse’s attempts to get them to move. Gerard and Niles were supposed to stay out of the hospital tonight to avoid frightening away their quarry. Tremaine nodded to show it was all right and gestured for them to follow the nurse.

She led them into the wardroom next door to the one where the Gardier woman was installed. There were six metal-framed beds, three on each wall, and a couple of sideboard cabinets for holding extra supplies. The room was empty except for a very pale Rienish woman stretched out on one of the beds with a compress over her eyes. A younger woman with a little boy sat anxiously beside her. Startled, she looked up at the new arrivals.

Ilias dumped Giliead into the bed the nurse indicated and jerked his head toward the women. “It would be better to get them out of here.”

Tremaine nodded absently. She knew the presence of other patients would keep this from looking too much like a trap, but she didn’t suppose anyone else would see it that way. “They may not be able to move them tonight,” she pointed out, trying not to sound too hopeful.

Not understanding the Syrnaic conversation but probably catching Ilias’s worried tone, the nurse hesitated. “Is this all right?”

“Oh yes,” Tremaine assured her hurriedly. “We were just talking about something else.”

The nurse went out, and Tremaine pulled up a stool to sit next to the bed. Ilias perched next to Giliead, appropriating one of the pillows to lean against the headboard. “Remember not to move your leg.”

“I know that.” Giliead threw him an annoyed look, struggling to find a comfortable position on the narrow bed and still look wounded.

Tremaine used the polished steel panel over the ventilator grille to watch the other patients. It seemed an unlikely group for their rogue sorcerer to hide in, but the man—or woman—must be an accomplished master of disguise or misdirection to make it as far as he had. The woman in the bed was gray-haired, old pain lines etched in her face. It might be a chronic illness, something that had flared up with the stress of the evacuation perhaps. The younger woman wore a plain gray suit and could be daughter or companion, the boy, a grandson or another relative orphaned by the war. They were both staring at Ilias and Giliead, who was still grumpily shifting around on the bed. Then the younger woman seemed to realize it and looked away, a flush reddening her cheeks as she pulled the little boy into her lap. He still stared, his thumb tucked securely into his mouth.

Dr. Divies arrived in a rush, nodding briskly to the women but heading immediately to Giliead’s bedside. “Gentlemen, Miss Valiarde.” He pretended to study notes on a clipboard.

“We think it’s his knee,” Tremaine prompted helpfully.

Divies nodded, pulling up another stool and sitting beside her. “It’s a quiet night,” he said, apparently just making conversation. “We only have about twelve patients here.”

“That’s good,” Tremaine said, distracted as Divies scribbled on his notepad, holding it so she could read:
three are Averi’s men
. “I see,” she muttered.
He’s horning in on our plan. Bastard
.

Divies eyed her sharply, saw she understood and got to his feet. Nodding to Giliead and Ilias, he went over to the woman in the other bed.

Watching him worriedly, Giliead asked, “What did he tell you?”

“Averi has three men here disguised—probably badly—as patients,” Tremaine explained grimly. Their opponent, if it was human, would surely find it odd that three soldiers had all suddenly acquired indeterminate and not very disabling wounds that required them to lie about in the hospital instead of patrolling the boat. And she hoped this sorcerer really was a Gardier. If he was Syprian and had been listening in on their supposedly confidential Syrnaic conversations, they were the ones who were going to look like idiots.

Ilias made a derisive noise. “Your plan was better.”

As Divies gave instructions to the younger woman, the little boy, temporarily unattended, made a beeline for the two Syprians, regarding them with fascinated curiosity. Ilias absently ruffled his hair, rather with the attitude of someone acknowledging a friendly dog. Tremaine thought in sudden alarm,
Children. Gah!
Did Ilias want children? Hopefully not. Surely not if he meant to continue his career killing wizards.
Oh, come on,
she told herself then,
none of us are going to live that long
.