The Spirit Lens (21 page)

After an hour, my nerves felt shredded. While my lord nattered about racehorses, shared tea, inquired about relatives, slandered an errant boot-maker, and wheedled some concession about “placement” and “accompaniment” and “appropriate honors,” I sat on cushioned benches and fidgeted. I needed to tell Dante of my encounter with de Santo. Some crumb or tidbit in my talk with the ruined guard captain taunted me with overlooked importance, and I could not grasp it. Dante’s acid reason might.

As we returned from our morning’s excursions, I slipped over to the mages’ passage. Dante was not in his chambers, so I tore a transcript of Calvino de Santo’s testimony from my journal and stuffed it in his warded satchel. I hoped he could pick up the thread that escaped me.

“Philippe agreed to be on his guard tomorrow,” Ilario said when I rejoined him in his apartments. He fluffed the lace of his third change of attire since breakfast. “But he offered no assistance with our placement for the launch. Honestly, the man has no patience with me even at a game table where he is sure to win. You’d think we stood at Carabangor itself, he takes the cursed play so seriously.”

“And the girl . . . the news of Michel . . . of the crypt? What did he say when you told him?”

“First he wiped out my entire line of warriors, both tetrarchs, and my queen. I do hate it when he takes both tetrarchs, as I think they are the most exquisite pieces. . . .”

“Lord, what did he
say
?”

“He said those responsible would pay dearly, and that we—the three of us—should continue. Truly, Portier, I thought he would snatch me up and toss me into the box with the game pieces!”

Ilario’s reference to Carabangor described no trivial testiness on Philippe’s part. The costly victory at the desert city, ending eighteen years of barbaric incursions from Kadr, stood as Philippe’s first great achievement as sovereign. It was friends and good soldiers fallen at Carabangor that the spyglass had shown him wandering in an arid wasteland—lost, terrified, and despairing.

“But after our game”—Ilario leaned close, as if spies might have embedded themselves among the brocade doublets, satin cloaks, and silk shirts stuffing his wardrobe room—“he wanted to view the cell in the crypt. Portier, it was clean! No chains. No filth. No chair.”

“You’re sure it was the same?” Of course, he would be sure. Yet another twist tightened my knotted gut. “And Soren’s tomb?”

Had the light in the wardrobe room been better, I might have been surer of the flush that colored Ilario’s cheeks. “The display was . . . reduced. He did not note it. Come, Portier, don’t look so grim. You’ll ruin your complexion. Even Philippe said it was only to be expected that they’d clear out that wretched hole.”

Yes, but the timing was so close. The queen and her sorceress knew someone had been poking about in the crypt. The king had commanded me to withhold judgment, but that was becoming more and more difficult.

“Now, dust yourself off. I’ve more calls to make.”

I could glean no more specific report of their talk, nor could I break away to consult Dante, for Ilario fussed and threatened tantrums until I accompanied him. “If you insist on my accomplishing these tedious tasks, Portier, then the least you can do is provide me this smidge of assistance. My dislike of all serious business is well-known. I simply refuse to suffer frown lines and hair falling out all over. Besides, my gifts lie so completely in the area of gentle amusements and refined sport, it would be seen as simply greedy were I to strive for the same accomplishment in business or arms. But I’m finding that if I travel with a private secretary, I am instantly accorded a certain respect that allows serious conversation. So you see, it is your own fault. . . .”

Ilario’s life flowed like a river flooded out of its banks—senseless, di rectionless, yet hugely impossible to divert. The afternoon visits took us to a hunchbacked dowager, whose town house smelled like soured apple parings, but boasted a sweeping view of the Ley and the bristling masts clustered at its wharves; then on to a black-bearded marqués, and the pink marble halls of the collegia botanica. As the sun slipped into the western sea, Ilario exchanged whispers and drank tiny cups of spiced tea with a Fassid silk merchant whose silk-draped display pavilion could have held my entire family estate.

I could not recall a single word of sense spoken in those hours. Yet at the end of the day, the fop set off to play another game of stratagems and inform the king of his arrangements. A party of important personages, representing all elements of the city’s society, would accompany the king and queen to the launch of the
Destinne.
Rather than mounting a viewing platform on shore or anywhere Philippe and Eugenie might be expected, they would observe the launch from the private, well-secured pleasure barge of the Fassid silk merchant. It was a good scheme—perhaps enough to confound an assassin. Perhaps.

 

 

SCARLET AND GOLD PENNANTS WAFTED lazily against the sheeted silver of the dawn sky. The merry strains of shawm and sackbut danced across the water. As the broad river Ley rippled and slurped against piers and barges and muddy banks, cockboats ferried the last supplies to the caravel
Destinne,
lying so grand at her anchorage in the center of the channel.

As I clung to the rail of the
Swan
, Massimo Haile’s elegantly outfitted pleasure barge, the sight of the
Destinne
struck hard upon my imagining. In less than an hour, it would set sail for the lands of diamond-crusted streets, trees taller than temples, cities ruled by naked women, or whatever truly lay across the seas beyond the Mouth of Hedron. Or perhaps her brave crew would sail the
Destinne
off the edge of the world and plummet into the Souleater’s abyss, as some few yet believed. To embark on such a voyage on such a morning must surely drive mind and spirit to the highest reaches. Gracious saints, what I would give for such purpose and adventure. The king’s ever-more-sordid mystery had stripped the warmth and color from my already-sober world, leaving it danker and grayer yet.

Despite the early hour and the damp from overnight rain, the dockside lanes and merchants’ wharves teemed with people. Bread and tea sellers cried their morning wares. Dockhands and carters, beset by swooping, screeching gulls, bawled at women and romping boys to clear a path. Viewing stands had been hastily constructed on the mud flats and draped in soggy buntings. A platform near the shore had been reserved for a crowd of scholars, displaying their distinctive regalia—brick red gowns and berets for the collegiae astronomica, sky blue for the collegiae math ematica, green gowns and black velvet tams for the collegiae botanica.

A circle of the Guard Royale kept the crowd well away from our mooring, and the slowly brightening morning revealed liveried archers atop the warehouses and pikemen posted at every door and alleyway. Massimo Haile’s sturdy hirelings controlled access to the pleasure barge. They claimed to have manned their posts all through the night.

Even so, I had clutched my courret and traversed every centimetre of the gilded barge: the promenade along the elaborately carved, newly painted bulwarks; the open-air viewing galleries fore and aft; the lounging pavilion tucked behind billowing draperies in the center of the barge, and each of its cushioned couches, inlaid tables, and hanging lamps. I had even visited the cramped wine and food store beneath the exotic arch of the
Swan
’s tail, and the forward rowing banks where sixteen bare-chested Fassid of impressive physique stared insolently while stretching backs and arms or downing mugs of ale. My talisman had indicated no untoward risks anywhere aboard, yet I felt no easier. The attempt would come today, not six-and-forty days from now.

Cheers rolled through the crowd as trumpet blasts and the royal ensign heralded the king’s arrival. As Philippe traversed the wharfside, he tossed memorials—buttons, coins, or somewhat—into the crowd, leaving a wake of scrabbling backsides. He dismounted at the cordoned-off foot of Haile’s gangway, exchanging greetings with two dignitaries in starched ruffs and wide-brimmed hats. Haile’s dockhands unloaded a number of tight-rolled bundles, wider than my armspan, from a waiting dray, then carried the linen rolls and the king’s furled ensign up the ramp. Our rail-thin host and two fellow merchant princes wrapped in fur-lined mantles waited under a silken canopy on deck.

The cheering faded into scattered shouts and rolling murmurs, as a blue painted coach passed the guarded perimeter. First out, aided by a footman in the queen’s livery, was Damoselle Maura. Rising from her curtsy, she spoke an earnest message to Philippe. Unease nibbled at my gut. Though too far away to hear her, I had no difficulty in reading the king’s displeasure at her news. My cousin strode angrily up the gangway. Maura trailed after him alone, as the coach rolled away. Queen Eugenie had not come.

What I would not give for Dante’s spell to hear across distances! What could possibly keep the queen from the launch of an expedition honoring her son’s memory? What wicked magic had the villains planned for Ophelie to work this day, and who would work it in her stead? What role was planned for a captive Michel de Vernase?

Sainted ancestors!
I massaged my aching jaw. My teeth had near ground themselves flat these past two days. No matter which way I turned, my back felt vulnerable. I returned to the small, forward gallery, tucked between the lounging pavilion and open hull where the rowers sat. The venue allowed me to observe ship, shore, and a sky now hazed with scudding clouds.

Two rows of elaborately carved posts, more than twice a man’s height and topped with gold-and-red painted birds, formed a great rectangle at the center of the barge. From slender crossbeams hung garlands of flowers, the silken draperies that shielded Massimo Haile’s lounging pavilion from the public eye, and the stretched canopies that protected his guests on the aft gallery from excess sun. The silk merchant’s dockside crew stretched new spans of line even higher on the posts between the carved birds. To each taut span the dockhands lashed one of the linen rolls—celebration banners, I guessed.

A steward hoisted the king’s black and silver stag above the
Swan
’s high curved tail. The ensign snapped sharply, near ripped from its mooring by a stray gust.

Ilario arrived with the guests of the queen’s party—the black-bearded marqués, the hunchbacked dowager, and, to my astonishment, all three mages. Mage Orviene paused for a laughing conversation with a Fassid aide before mounting the gangway. Gaetana swept aboard with the other guests. Dante, his long hair plaited, his black brows and gaunt cheeks made more severe by a black tunic and deep blue gown, ascended the ramp alone. Both guests and crew kept their distance, which likely suited him very well.

Though immeasurably relieved to see Dante, I was not sure whether to be fearful or reassured at the presence of our two principal suspects. Yet I doubted their own hands would be soiled with this day’s work. Once more I scanned every person on the barge, the ring of guards, the people lining the wharves, the dinghies and shallops that dotted the broad reaches of the river. Where would the attack commence? It
would
come; I was sure of it.

Deckhands hauled in the gangway. I forced myself to breathe.

The bargemaster barked orders from a small railed platform facing the oarsmen.
“Seiche mar!”
Rowers settled into position and grasped the oars.
“Disema!”
Deck boys dressed in red tunics and gold arm rings cast off the mooring lines.
“Kise fa!”
Sixteen oars raised as one.
“Kise diche!”
As one the sweeps dipped into the murky water. Smooth as its namesake, the
Swan
glided away from its berth above Merona’s port and eased into the channel upriver, between the
Destinne
and the grim stone finger of Spindle Prison
.

The rising wind shifted the furled banners and billowed the barge’s filmy draperies and silken canopies. The king’s ensign set up a steady whapping. I grabbed my narrow-brimmed hat to prevent it from making its own journey beyond the Mouth of Hedron.

“Slack water!” We’d not yet dropped anchor when the cry echoed through every bobbing boat, shallop, and skiff on the river. Another wave of raucous cheers and merry music swelled on shore. On board the caravel, copper-skinned seamen scrambled into the rigging, and more gathered at the
Destinne
’s bow and stern.

Philippe, Haile, Ilario, the marqués and marquesa, gathered at the
Swan
’s stern rail, to watch a
Destinne
seaman hoist Sabria’s scarlet and gold. Guests crowded behind them on the grand gallery. A few, including two Fassid merchants and Maura, strung out along the starboard rail. I abandoned the chanting rowers and strolled toward Maura, thinking to find out why her mistress was not here.

“Sonjeur de Duplais.” I swiveled. Gaetana had come up behind me, serenely sober, as if bleeding young girls for power had never occurred to her. Dante, sour faced, stood a few steps behind.

“Divine grace, Master Gaetana, Master Dante,” I said, inclining my head. “Indeed a bright day.” Yet the hazy sky was shading anything but fine at present. We’d see storms by afternoon.

“Dante, have you met Lord Ilario’s secretary, Portier de Savin-Duplais?” asked the woman mage, extending a hand toward each of us. “Portier was our quite-competent librarian at the collegia. Knowledgeable as far as a layman can be.” The barbed compliment reflected the sentiments of most at Seravain.

Dante’s stare could have frosted flame. “I’ve doubts as to competence. But until yon female overseer finds me a proper servant, this knock-kneed craven’s to fetch my books—assuming he can manage a task for a body with a
mind
attached.” Ilario’s current boisterous recitation of “The Lay of Hedron’s Mouth” in the stern gallery would do naught to dispel Dante’s scorn.

“Chevalier de Sylvae is a loyal supporter of our art,” said Gaetana. “Her Majesty favors him.”