The Spirit Lens (44 page)

I did not sense that she was answering my question.
Press harder, Portier.

“What circumstances, lady? What do you know of the conte’s activities?” And then I played my vilest trump. “Should I fail to demonstrate some confirmation of my accusations soon . . . Damoselle, I do fear for my life. I had not reckoned on such staunch friendship between the king and a low-birthed warrior like Michel de Vernase.”

Maura’s cloak rustled. She moved as if to rise . . . but rocked back again . . . and forward . . . again and again. Her fear burgeoned to fill the summerhouse, and her mouth moved soundlessly, as if words battled to escape her control. Gods, what did she know? I held silent, afraid to remind her of my presence, lest she hold back.

“Gaetana asked me to send that crate to Mattefreise,” she said, the hoarse phrases scarce more than a whisper. “It never occurred to me to refuse. Members of the household send things all the time. But who ever will believe that? Because last year, in the month of Siece, I
did
receive a letter from Conte Ruggiere. He asked me to have some girls’ clothing made to specification and sent to Tigano in a large crate along with supplies for a tenday journey. Not two months past, I received two similar crates to be delivered to the temple. I did not question who the sender was or what the contents might be. I’ve always done favors for the conte. I believed—I still believe the conte is in hiding for good reason. I did not mention these incidents to anyone, as I had pledged him secrecy. I owe him—Sante Ianne!
I
ordered the banners made for the launch of the
Destinne
and arranged for their delivery to the
Swan
. It was my duty to relieve my mistress’s burden. But who will believe that?” Her rocking stilled and she pressed her fist to her heart. “Merciful saints, Portier, I suggested the wrestl—”

“Silence!” I blurted. Dismay tore through my layered deceptions like the Aspirant’s scarifying blades through flesh. “Say not one more word to me.”

No sooner had I spoken than my arms gathered her to my breast. Somehow feet, hands, and heart had taken me where reason forbade me go. Her hair smelled of dusk roses. Her throat fluttered under my stroking fingers like a captive bird’s heart.

“Easy, easy, sweet lady.” The ragged edge of caution slipped from my grasp. “I will see you through this. But I am surely a sworn witness in this matter. Say naught to me that I cannot report.” Her next word would have linked her with treason . . . regicide. I could
not
hear it.

“I did not conspire to evil, Portier. I swear it. Those poor people on the
Swan
. . . murder . . . I could never . . .”

“I believe you.”

And I did—utterly and completely—which was wholly unexplainable save by some conviction passed between her body and mine. Was I so experienced with subterfuge that I could recognize truth and lies, so experienced with women that I could untangle wishing belief from desire and sympathy?

“Go back to your apartments and back to your work. Be yourself. Speak nothing of this night. Nothing of me, save ordinary converse about these rumors. And by your hope of Heaven, lady, go nowhere alone until these matters are settled. Even during the day, keep constantly in company.” Murder had dogged my footsteps. “If you receive letters, messages, packages . . . anything from Michel, anything related to him, anything from Gaetana . . . get them to me. You are exceptional—clever, efficient, trusted. Of all people, you can do these things without suspicion.”

“I’ll
not
compromise Michel de Vernase,” she said, pulling away.

“Do not speak of him again,” I said. “Neither defend nor condemn him.” My hands slipped down her arms until they grasped her cold fingers. I gathered them and brought them to my lips. “It is not our place to choose what we will or will not see. We must have faith that unfolding truth will expose your actions in their proper proportion and his as worthy of your beliefs. Trust me”—I kissed her fingers, which tasted faintly of honey and springtime—“and don’t be afraid.”

“You make me believe that’s possible,” she said softly. “I’ve never—Who are you, who can bring me such comfort?”

“As you said, damoselle, I am your friend.” Her lips tasted sweeter than her fingers.

 

 

IDIOT! WHAT KIND OF
AGENTE confide
kisses his witness? Or, angels defend us, his quarry?
As I waited for lovely Maura and her rose-scented hair to leave the maze well behind, I longed for a time when I did not have to consider such things as duplicity after a kiss of such blessedly enveloping heat as could melt a man’s boots. The records at Seravain named Maura ney Billard a talented, accomplished sorceress of adept’s level.
She
could be Michel de Vernase’s magical accomplice, the woman who had tormented Ophelie, playing on my inexperience and pity to learn what I knew.

My soul refused to accept it. Or was it only my body telling my soul what to believe? Why had I not asked what she
owed
Michel?

These circular musings halted upon my return to my apartments. Another message waited.

Gaetana. Gruchin had been her creature, her adept, nurtured, discarded, and bled dry. Gaetana had frequent access to the missing Mondragoni manuscripts, as well as to the royal crypt and Maura’s services. News of Ophelie’s exposure had infuriated her. She had invited Dante onto the
Swan
and approached him with unsavory “translation projects.” She had wielded sophisticated magic to douse the
Swan
fire. Most telling, Ophelie had named a
woman
as her tormentor. Gaetana had ordered the “mushroom crate” shipped to Mattefriese.

All of these things could be innocent circumstance, as could Adept Fedrigo’s disappearance in the face of her displeasure. Orviene’s “suspicions” could be opportunistic lies or spiteful gossip. Yet in their accumulation, the reports cast an aura of conspiracy over the formidable sorceress. We just needed direct evidence that she had engaged in transference.

My battered body and mind begged for sleep. I pressed the heels of my hands to my eyes as if I might squeeze out some plan to make the sorceress speak. Perhaps it was time to compose my own letter.

Over the next hour, I wrote a brief explanation of my search for evidence to prove Michel de Vernase responsible for the attempt on the king’s life. To this, I appended an account of a horrifying incident, wherein I had been waylaid in the alleyways of Castelle Escalon, dragged to a subterranean laboratorium, and leeched by a tall, masked woman wearing a silver collar, who threatened to drain every drop of my “royal blood.” Lies flowed as fluently from my pen as from my mouth. I described my scarified wounds, and her implements and techniques, and finished with the tale of my harrowing escape by way of an exploding lantern and a passing guardsman.

Shortly before middle-night, I roused a palace messenger and posted copies of this great fiction to Kajetan, my mentor, who had solicited news of transference, and to Angloria, a methodical, painstakingly honest, former instructor of mine, newly raised to the Camarilla prefecture. As guardians of the Concord de Praesta, they could not fail to investigate. Gaetana, the only female mage at Castelle Escalon, would find Angloria’s inquisitors at her door by midday. The story was near enough the truth that they would ask her the right questions. Unlike me, they had means to judge the truth of her answers.

My instincts claimed I had done right. At some point I had to take action, lest we swirl in evidence until we were all dead by fire and chaos. I would apologize for the deception later.

 

 

“PORTIER! COME, WAKE UP.” A hand rattled my bruised shoulder bones.

“Heaven’s gates, what is it?”

A candle burned on my bedside table. Ilario’s anxious face loomed near. “Come along, Portier, he wants to see you.”

“The damnable mage?” I scraped the grit from my eyes and blotted my chin with my sleeve.

Ilario shook his head and tossed my crumpled shirt at me. “Philippe.”

That woke me. Mayhap my cousin had reconsidered having a poor relation dictate the course of his marriage, friendships, and sovereignty.

The air from the open window spoke of lapsing night as I laced my traveling breeches and buttoned my shirt. By the time this errand was done, Dante would be waiting for me in the stableyard, ready to set out for Vernase. Unless I wasn’t available.

“I didn’t know you were come back to Merona, lord,” I said as I pulled on my new boots and made to follow Ilario.

“Eugenie sent to me,” he said, peeking out of the outer door before pulling it open. “Seems she had a wretched day and needed diversion.”

I could well imagine Eugenie’s need for comfort.

We tiptoed down the householders’ hall, rounded into the northwest tower, and slipped into an abandoned stool closet. Alert now, I noticed Ilario shift the brick in the upper corner. Thus I was not surprised when a narrow panel swung out of the scuffed wooden wall. Once the door clicked shut behind us, Ilario unshuttered a lamp. A quarter of an hour, six turnings, two halts to scurry across public passages and through more hidden panels, and we ended in a capacious wardrobe closet.

“Portier,” whispered Ilario, the lamp exposing lines of worry on his boyish face, “I don’t like all this, people knowing you’re on the hunt. You’re awfully . . . exposed. And Philippe—” He puffed his cheeks and blew an unhappy note, shaking his head until his fair hair fell over his eyes. “I’ve not seen him so angry. So uncertain.”

“I appreciate your concern, lord.” Truly it warmed me more than I could say, even if he could only express it in the King of Sabria’s closet. “But I can’t exactly have a bodyguard trailing me around, can I? Not if we’re going to find the answers we need. As for my cousin . . . none of us is immune to royal displeasure. At least I’ve blood kinship on my side.”

He grunted a quiet laugh. “That’s served
me
well. I’ll be waiting here to take you back.” He rapped on the wall and shoved open a panel, allowing me to enter the very study I’d been tossed out of half a day earlier.

The damaged desk and chair had been cleared away and the ruined carpet removed to expose patterns of dark and light wood. A small, bright blaze illumined the tiled hearth. Philippe, gowned in fur-lined silk, hunched in a chair beside it, as if he were eight-and-seventy years and not eight-and-thirty.

I dropped to one knee beside his chair. Before I could rise, he thrust a paper into my hand. Sitting back upon my heels, I read it by the light of the flames.