The Spirit Lens (10 page)

Sitting on the bed, propped against the outer wall, I consoled myself that it was one night only, and necessary to make my humiliation real. I flicked a finger at two spiders that crept down the peeling wall and kicked a large beetle out of the sheets.

Truly, the “row” had gone well. If I was to be the king’s pawn, it was reassuring that he was an intelligent manipulator. Yet, even though I knew his opinions, Philippe’s bald declaration of scorn for sorcery had shocked me. He had, in essence, called his wife’s mages cheats as the two of them stood not fifteen metres from him. I wished I had dared look up to gauge their expressions. Surely
marital discord
must be too sweet a term to describe the friction between the two royal households. What an ugly mess.

A fractured laugh escaped my throat at my naive hopes that Philippe’s summons would somehow lead to my imagined “destiny.” I’d not even two months to unravel a mystery whose chief suspects I was forbidden to question. And what if we were wrong about Orviene and Gaetana and had to look in some entirely different direction?

The lock scraped and rattled, reminding my stomach that hunger might be causing my gut’s upheaval. A full day had passed since I’d supped.

But the short, robust young woman who entered my cell bore a lamp, not dinner. The ring of keys dangling from her leather belt evidenced responsibilities, yet her jeweled earrings, smoothly coiled hair, and full sleeved gown of indigo silk hardly bespoke a jailer.

“I’ll knock when I’m ready to leave,” she announced to the hesitant guard. “I doubt Sonjeur de Duplais poses any risk to health or virtue.”

Of a sudden acutely aware of my unseemly posture, I kicked off the sheets and jumped to my feet. My spall pouch dropped to the floor. I bent to retrieve it, noting the regrettably threadbare state of my stockings. My cheeks flamed. Alas, the guards had taken my shoes and belt, and I had to settle for buttoning my gaping doublet with the spall pouch inside and running fingers through my straggling hair.
Dithering fool.
But then, far more time had passed since a woman had graced my bedchamber than since I had dined.

“Divine grace, damoselle,” I said, bowing, left hand properly exposed on my shoulder.

“Maura ney Billard,” she said, baring her own left hand.

Though many might judge the lady plain, the earthen hues of her hair, eyes, and round cheeks glowed warmly in the lamplight. Her voice, on the other hand, was decidedly cool and precise.

After a brisk survey of my chamber, eyeing the rumpled bed where the beetle and several of its friends had taken up residence again, she seated herself on the three-legged stool in the corner. Its proximity to the bare floor did no more to diminish her self-assurance than did her diminutive height or her brief nose. “I serve as administrator of the queen’s household, including the
Consilium Reginae
—Her Majesty’s advisors in matters of sorcery. Please sit down.”

I perched on the edge of the bed, near swallowing my tongue. Were we found out? Ilario . . . Dante . . . Ixtador’s Gates, what had they done?

The lady cocked her head and leaned forward, examining me as if she were a kennelmaster considering a new pup. “I witnessed your petition to the king, sonjeur. This afternoon, as someone recounted the tale to Her Majesty, Mage Gaetana mentioned that you had served as archivist and librarian at Collegia Seravain. Is that true?”

“Yes, my lady.”

“Her Majesty has just taken on a new advisor,” said the lady, setting her lamp on the floor, “a master mage unfamiliar with court life. The mage deems an assistant necessary, in particular an acolyte or adept who might acquire and maintain the books he needs for his duties. Never having retained his own assistant, he has no name in mind and has left the hiring to me. I am here to offer you the position.”

Caught between relief and confusion, my mind snarled like a sprung clockwork.
Ilario
, not Dante, was supposed to put about that he was in desperate need of a personal secretary.

“But I—” What to say? This was all wrong. If I refused her offer . . . insulted this lady or somehow made myself undesirable . . . how could I then apply to work for Ilario?

“Your determination to serve the royal family would be well satisfied by this position, sonjeur. And your qualification of good family and sincere piety, as well as your experience, seems a fortuitous match. Naturally, we would require references, but I’ve no doubts they’ll be satisfactory and see no reason to delay.”

“References . . .” Blood pounded my temples. This was absurd. I couldn’t work for Dante. I needed to go places he’d have no reason to go; inquire about things he had no reason to know. Dante had agreed with my plan.

Think, Portier.
I breathed deeply twice, a remedy I’d often used to force time and thought to slow. Dante was not stupid. He must have some compelling reason to contravene our plan. And this whole matter . . . the woman’s haste . . . seemed odd.

Billard
. A major blood family. She would have numerous contacts at Seravain and elsewhere—adepts and acolytes who would relish court service. And her use of
ney
Billard, instead of
de
Billard, indicated that her mother’s family outranked her father’s, which often meant even
more
relatives eager for advancement. Why would she choose an unknown? She embodied a quiet authority, yet her plump fingers had twined themselves into a knot in her lap.

“I would need to write letters,” I said, slowly—testing. “Explain my need for references. It could take a tennight or two, perhaps a month. But I could certainly consider your kind offer.”

Disappointment melted her cool mask, and rue tweaked a friendly smile. “I abhor dissembling, Sonjeur de Duplais, and thus I must inform you that this offer promises no comfortable employment. I pounced upon your qualifications both because of your desire to be at court and also because the longer this new mage resides at Castelle Escalon, the more difficult it will be to fill the position. Master Dante is a most . . .
intense
. . . man.”

“How so, lady? You intrigue me.” I buried my mouth in my hands, lest the smile grown on my own face give me away. She had caught Dante perfectly.

She frowned and stared at the ceiling for a moment, as if determining how to couch her description. To her credit, when she spoke, she looked me square on. “His words, his opinions, and his scrutiny carry weight beyond the usual. I can’t describe it better than that. His manners demonstrate little grace. His frankness is more akin to flaying than speech, and he has no patience with frivolity or hesitation. Yet he comes highly qualified, recommended by persons Her Majesty trusts. Her Majesty was entirely satisfied after their private interview.”

All right. Perhaps she didn’t want to subject any personal friends to the strange mage’s whims. That made sense. She was here because Dante had demanded an assistant in such terms that I was the glaringly obvious choice. He knew my plan and the reasoning behind it. I had to trust him.

I rose to my stockinged feet and bowed. “Damoselle ney Billard, your honesty becomes you and honors your mistress. I hear naught to make a determined spirit quake. Indeed, this prospect, while daunting, saves me the difficulties of exploring other opportunities in the royal household that would likely result in situations far less suited to my experience. In short, I am humbly grateful and accept the position.”

She popped up from the stool, as if the weight of the sky had lifted from her shoulders. “Consider me in your debt, Sonjeur de Duplais. If the situation becomes too burdensome, I insist you come to me and I shall seek remedy from Her Majesty. The mage has been brought in to do my lady service, and I’ve no doubt that any who aid him will also reap her deepest gratitude.”

My skin crept at recalling the
service
Eugenie de Sylvae desired of Dante. Royal gratitude could certainly be useful, but the mage had better have a damned good reason for this.

 

 

DAMOSELLE MAURA WAS NOTHING IF not efficient. Morning brought a plate of cold lamb and olives with her compliments. Still groggy from a night of empty dreams, I’d scarce dug in when the lady herself arrived.

“Did you sleep well in this unfortunate place, sonjeur?” she asked, wrinkling her nose. The door remained open behind her, and the draft from the courtyard outside the barred window strengthened the miasma of mold and urine.

“As well as could be expected, damoselle,” I said, scrambling off the bed while dabbing at my greasy mouth with the back of my hand. Few activities are less graceful than eating, especially when one lacks knife, spoon, or serviette. “I feel thoroughly chastised. My court protocol shall certainly
not
slip again.”

She did not quite laugh, as if the bounds of her business kept such demonstrations inside her. Yet the heightened glow of her richly colored skin and the evidence of a slight dimple in one cheek made the prospects of the day immensely brighter.

“The guard holds your release papers and personal belongings. As Master Dante insists you attend him right away, I’ve come to show you the way to his chambers myself.”

“My deepest gratitude, damoselle. I cannot tell you—” But she was already out the door, leaving my tongue hanging out like a thirsty pup’s.

I blotted my mouth again, wiped my hands quickly on the bed sheets, and followed, reciting to myself the unfortunate realities of family connection that had kept my life celibate. The lady, daughter of a blood family, would know the rules. The door guard returned boots, belt, journal, compass, and the silver phial my mentor had given me with his best potion for my recurrent headaches. The courret remained tucked away in my spall pouch.

Once out of the cell, I felt as if I’d shed an excessively tight suit of clothes. But I could not forget I had a role to play, even if Dante had changed the playscript out from under me.

“Damoselle, if you please,” I said, catching up to her. “Why would the mage need me so soon? I mean, I’m happy to go, but after a night confined, I feel unkempt. If this mage is very exacting . . . Are you certain he will accept me?”

“Her Majesty is providing the assistant her servant has requested. He’ll not dare refuse.” A pleasant animation softened the blunt assertion. A bold young woman indeed.

The open galleries and gardens of Castelle Escalon were built in the sprawling Fassid style. As Damoselle Maura briskly navigated the confusing route from my cell, housed in the cellar of an old barracks, I did my best to memorize landmarks. A long gray underground passage. A round crossing-room banded by lozenge-shaped window openings. A fragrance garden. An arcade where a Fassid love poem had been scribed in the tiled floor and its erotic images painted on panels in the vaulted ceiling.

“You’re very kind to show me the way,” I said. “It would be easy to get lost here.”

“Her Majesty’s household comprises the entire east wing,” she said, pointing beyond three wide steps of whorled rose marble flanked by sculpted oak trees. “Her ladies, her brother Lord Ilario, and her counselors, including her mages, all live here.”

At the top of the steps a broad gallery swept a long curve, its open arches overlooking the slate rooftops of Merona and the wide band of the river Ley, shimmering in the morning light. Just before the gallery ended in a wide, upward stair, a passage branched off to the right.

“These are Mage Gaetana’s apartments,” said the lady, pointing to the first doors along the soft-lit passage. “These Mage Orviene’s, and these”—we arrived at the single door closest to the far end of the passage—“Mage Dante’s.”

The administrator’s brisk knock elicited a curt, “Enter.”

The lady gasped as we stepped through the door. Gray smoke wafted from the hearth, stinging our eyes and offending our nostrils with a sulfurous stench. Despite the discomfort, I had to smother amusement, even while breathing a prayer the mage would not get himself booted out of the palace too quickly. Luxurious draperies of heavy, blood-colored satin had been tied up in ugly knots, spilling sunlight from the broad windows across a scene of destruction. Armchairs, cushions, ebony tables, and delicate statuary had been piled haphazardly on damask couches shoved against the walls. At least three crumpled rugs had been thrown atop the pile.

A deep, narrow groove had been gouged into the rare mahogany floor, forming a circle some four metres in diameter. Clad in his old russet tunic, rather than one of the embroidered jackets Edmond de Roble had provided him before leaving Villa Margeroux, the mage knelt inside the circle, tracing the deep channel with the still smoking end of a charred stick.

“Master Dante, what have you—?” The woman visibly choked back a reprimand. “I’ve brought your new assistant, Portier de Savin-Duplais.”

“Good. He can finish this while I get on with the underlayment.” He glanced up and caught Damoselle Maura’s displeasure. “What? Do these other mages not
work
at Her Majesty’s business? Perhaps that’s why they achieve no results. To prepare a new circumoccule for every trial is inefficient and error-prone. Accuracy. Precision. Repeatability. Without them, you’ve naught but accidents and happenstance.”

He popped to his feet, thrust the smoldering stick into my hand, and crouched beside the hearth. The offending stench and smoke rose from a crucible set upon a tripod over an unnaturally intense fire. “I need worktables,” he said as he dropped yellow clots from a paper packet into the crucible, causing rills of blue flame to flare across his stinking mixture. “Three of them, each exactly three metres long. One with a polished stone surface, the others planed oak. And cupboards with lockable doors. Two at the least. Four would be better.”

“You didn’t inform the steward of these needs, when we spoke to him yesterday?”

“How was I to expect that folk hiring a mage had no idea what a mage needs to do his work?” He poked at the belching contents of the crucible with a stirring rod, then glared at me over his shoulder. “Well, get on then, apprentice. The sooner you’ve done, the sooner we clear this damnable stink.”