The Spirit Lens (5 page)

The mage tossed his stylus aside and settled onto the dirt, resting his folded arms on his drawn-up knees, as if prepared to lecture us. “What part of my history leads you or
you
”—he glared ferociously at me—“to believe that I might be willing to be kept in some aristo’s menagerie alongside the horses, hounds, and birds? I work as I please and study what I please, and no one demands my time be spent making love philtres or skin glamours or servicing whatever ‘unsavory’ desires your mistress wishes to indulge. I’ve countless better things to do.”

As I tried not to stare at the mage’s now-exposed right hand—a red-scarred, twisted claw living ugly and useless at the end of a well-muscled arm—my mind raced to knit Ilario’s unraveled stupidity into a useful story. The fop had skewed the truth just enough to leave me an opening for the very test of skill and character I wished this visit to encompass. If only I knew how to entice the mage into revelations. Obviously, he cared naught for comforts or renown. What induced him to accommodate those who came here seeking his help?

“Because the opportunities we offer are unique,” I blurted, insight like a blade between my ears. “Your history and this place”—I waved my hand to encompass his odd home—“and gossip of a forbidding mage who untangles the mysteries of broken minds led me—us—to believe we might find in you a certain . . . nontraditional . . . approach to your work. A talented man interested in puzzles.”

“Go on.”

Scarce daring to believe I’d guessed right, I laid down another thread. “We could offer virtually unlimited resources to advance whatever studies you wish—books, funds, connections to information and materials from every corner of the known world, the most prominent mages in Sabria as your colleagues. You would have the opportunity to collaborate in magic of a grander scale than you could—”

Mirthless laughter halted me midargument. “So you
are
more fools than villains,” said the mage. “Unfortunately for you, it has been many years since I concluded that large-scale magical works are entirely sham and chicanery, and that the ‘most prominent mages’ in Sabria have not the least concept of true sorcery. In short, your benevolent mistress is misguided at best, some duc’s whore perpetuating a fraud at worst, and she could not offer me gold enough to participate in such a mockery.”

“Speak no slander, sir!” Ilario’s words dropped in the mage’s lap like a challenge glove. “We serve the Queen of Sabria.”

“Lord Ilario!” I snapped, horrified. The fop had almost got me believing he had a wit.

“The queen?” The mage guffawed. “So the ‘prominent’ colleagues you offer are the shadow queen’s trained Camarilla pups? I’d sooner bed a leper than ally myself with clowns and fools.”

No reasoning man could wholly discount the charges laid against sorcerers—that some of us paraded grand illusion in the guise of true sorcery. But this brutish arrogance was insupportable.

“Civilized men do not belittle those they do not know,” I snapped, summoning what dignity I could muster ankle deep in a vegetable patch. “You may be gifted, sir, but the mages of the Camarilla have proved their talents over centuries.”

He only grew quieter and more contemptuous. “Show me the great work of a Camarilla mage,
student
, and I will show you with what tools a minimally talented hod carrier can duplicate it. Show me one of your own great works. Or perhaps . . . even a small one?”

And so was Ilario’s challenge glove returned to my own lap, along with the mage’s choice of weapons. I had not thought my failed status so obvious.

Annoyed at my slip of control, I gathered my temper. I had not come here to demonstrate my own magical worth. If we were to fail at this, all the better this man believe me Ilario’s intellectual peer.

“No,” I said, crushing doubt and pride alike with the hammer of necessity. “
You
show
us
. Elsewise, we shall assume you’re naught but a trickster with a crude mouth, afraid to speak your own name, and with no better concept of magical truth than those you disdain. I can provide interesting, magically challenging employment for a skilled mage who values truth, scorns danger, and bears no loyalty to the Camarilla or any other magical practitioner.”

One corner of his mouth twisted in what might pass for amusement. Far more satisfying was the spark of curiosity that flared in his green eyes. “What employment might that be? You do not sacrifice your pride before a forbidding and unpleasant man for a charm to calm your horse.”

Swallowing my discomfiture at his insight, I laid down my challenge. “If you are interested, clean yourself, dress as befits a master mage, and join us at Villa Margeroux, off the Tallemant Road, within three days. A hired mount will await your use in Bardeu. Be prepared to dazzle us with your demonstration of magical truth. If we are satisfied with your application, Master Exsanguin, we will explain our dangerous proposition.”

I bowed to the fop and motioned him back through the underbrush to the horses. Lord Ilario nodded in return and marched away, patting my shoulder as if he had given birth to me.

The green gaze scorched my back as I followed Ilario out of the garden. “Dante,” said the uncommon voice behind us. “My name is Dante.”

CHAPTER TWO

36 TRINE 61 DAYS UNTIL THE ANNIVERSARY

I
had believed the mage intrigued. Something had induced him to yield his name. Dante.
Exsanguin
. Bloodless. By the holy Veil, even the memory of his stare set me glancing over my shoulder. But the third day had almost waned before the Contessa de Margeroux’s housekeeper announced a visitor.

“He will not step inside, Conte Olivier.” The comfortable gray woman of middling years huffed as if the report scalded her mouth. “He says he’s come to see—forgive me, lord, but he’s charged me to repeat his words exactly—the student and the dancepole and no . . . inbred aristos. Is it certain he’s the person expected? Such a dirty, crude ruffian?”

I doubted the housekeeper’s protective loyalty to the elderly Conte de Margeroux and his much younger Lady Susanna was much tested. Though valued friends of the king, the couple lived quietly in this remote demesne. The conte directed an inquiring scowl at Ilario.

“Your report but confirms his identity, good Hanea,” said Ilario, shuddering. “And you’d best obey. Cross him and he’ll likely change you into an ox. He is entirely yours, Portier. I’ve no wish to lay eyes on the creature.” He waggled his glittering, ringed fingers, his beloved lace cuffs dangling unchecked into his brandy—a measure of his disturbance. He had determinedly not spoken of Dante since we’d left the chestnut wood.

As I set out to meet our visitor, Conte Olivier retired. I wasn’t sure how much the elderly lord and his wife knew of Philippe’s personal troubles, but the king clearly trusted their discretion. Not only did they house the assassin’s implements, but for fifteen days they had treated Ilario and me as familiar guests, never inquiring of our business.

A bit of wilderness had been allowed to flourish amid the pristine cultivation of Lord Olivier’s sprawling demesne. Old joint-pines, creeping laurel, and budding strawberry trees created a fragrant and secluded haven. The footman reported that the visitor had made his way there straightaway.

“Have you an aversion to sunlight, Master Dante?” I said when he spun in his tracks at my approach.

His silver collar shone dully above the same shabby tunic he’d worn three days before, topped by a buff jerkin. Three days’ growth had left his chin bristling with black spikelets akin to fen sedge. His dreadful hand was tucked inside his garments. The other hand gripped a white walking stick.

“I’ve a need to stretch out the knots of beast riding,” he said, resuming his brisk pace as soon as I joined him. “Wasn’t born to it.”

Of all things, I’d never expected to smile in this man’s presence. No wonder it had taken him so long to get here.

“I’ve scorched thighs myself,” I said. “Tending a library gives one few opportunities to ride out, even did Seravain have mounts to lend. The chevalier must have a steel ass underneath his silk stockings.”

The mage glanced sidewise at me, flaring his nostrils as if an ill odor accompanied us. “How well do you know the pretty peacock?”

I saw no reason to dissemble. “Lord Ilario is harmless and good natured, saints bless his empty-headed ancestors. I did not choose him to partner in this task.”

“Perhaps.” He slowed to a walk. “So you expected to do the choosing . . . and
you
chose to approach me. Why?”

“As I said, your history speaks of exceptional talents—which you have yet to demonstrate—and a certain independence of thought—which you most clearly possess. And even after our short meeting, I cannot imagine a danger that would deter you, did you find your work intriguing.” Until that moment I had not articulated, even to myself, this certainty that he was the partner we needed. “I cannot and will not say more until I have your assurances—”

“I am no courtier who barters trust like paper words that can be burnt, or ink-drowned, or swept aside by any wind,” he snapped. “I speak plain and expect the same respect. You’ll get no assurances until I understand the whole of what you want. I don’t know why I’ve wasted my time with you.”

I hoped my satisfaction did not show. He did not understand his own hunger. “Clearly a man hiring a mage for a secret and dangerous task cannot reveal everything at once,” I said. “So let us proceed step by step. But I’ll promise you this: If I decide you are the right person, you will know everything I know before we begin.”

He considered that as we strolled deeper into the woodland. “If I agree to the work,” he said at last, “I deal with you and not the lordling. I’ll not abide deceivers.”

“Agreed.” My spine relaxed at such easy negotiation. “Now before we proceed, I must inquire about your parentage.”

No porcupine could bristle so vividly. “That is
not
your business.”

“Bloodlines often hint at areas of expertise. I have been tasked to solve a mystery, and your expertise is your qualification.”

“Bloodlines are irrelevant. I’ve queried witnesses who vouch this body burst from my common mother’s womb thanks to my common father’s seed. The two of them bequeathed me naught but this.” He yanked out his ruined hand. “Speak not to me of blessed ancestors or blood-born magic. I’ve neither worth the telling.”

“But your talents . . .”

“Everything I possess of spellmaking is learnt or discovered.” He thrust his maimed hand back into hiding, planted the walking stick, and moved on, visibly quenching his flared temper. “Does that intrigue you, Portier de Duplais, failed student?”

He sped his steps, and I could not read his back. What kind of
agente confide
could I be if a new acquaintance could deduce my own history so easily?

“Show me, Master,” I said, more forcefully than I intended. “You boast and scoff, and I hear naught but a marketplace shill, luring me into a diviner’s tent where I’ll be told the name of my true love for a mere two kivrae. Teach me your
discovered
truth of magic. I may be only a student who has discerned his natural limits, but I am a very
good
student
.
”

He halted, waiting for me, his folded arms resting on his chest, the staff tight in the crook of his arm. His mouth twisted oddly, narrowed eyes gleaming fierce in the failing light. Assessing me. I did my best not to squirm.

“All right, then. I presume you have memorized the formulas for many spells. You’ve learnt to balance the five divine elements—water, wood, air, spark, and base metal—by choosing appropriate particles to embody each formula and adjusting those particles according to the spell’s particular requirements: selecting a smaller shard of limestone to make a gate ward less rigid, or choosing three spoons of dust to increase the proportion of air and wood, allowing a sleeping fog to be easily dispersed, or adding a lock of hair from the person to be healed or warded or glamoured so that your enchantment will be tight bound to its focus. But tell me, are the particles themselves—or any other natural object—ever altered by your spellworking?”

“Certainly not.” Certainly not in my case—but not in anyone else’s case, either. “A particle can be glamoured—disguised with light to fool the eye—but the other senses would reveal its unchanged state. Or the particle, as any other object, can be used as a receptacle, linked to the spell so the enchantment can be transported. But magic itself is ephemera. Dust is naught but dust. Stone is stone. A thistle is a thistle. The Pantokrator has rendered nature immutable.”

We rounded a corner and came to an open glade. At one end of the clearing, stones had been stacked and fitted and a flow of water channeled to imitate a rocky waterfall. A stone bench sat to one side of the burbling font.

“Yet we melt silver and shape it,” said Dante, motioning me not to the bench, but to the ground in front of the font. “We alloy zinc and copper to make brass. We steep leaves in water to make tea.”

Irritated at his condescending tone, I cleared away a litter of thorny branches and last year’s leaves and sat cross-legged on the cool ground like a child in village school. A rabbit scuttered through the underbrush to find a new hiding place. “I am not an idiot, mage. Such are blendings or reshaping, not fundamental alterations. Brass is but a variant formulation of the divine elements. The metalsmith has added spark, and the new metal’s properties—weight, mass, hardness, malleability—remain appropriate to the combined elements. It is not magic.”

“Just what I’d expect a squawking parrot to report. Sit knees together, close your eyes, and quiet your thoughts.”

Curiosity—and a determination to see through whatever conjury he planned—goaded me to obey. From beyond my eyelids came a shifting and scraping and a grunt of effort. Whatever I expected, it had naught to do with an anvil being set in my lap.
No, not an anvil, but one of the stones from the font.
The cool solidity weighed heavy on my knees.