Storm Warning (54 page)

“I can offer a possible trap,” he said carefully. “With myself as the bait. Two of those weapons were meant to eliminate me; let me place myself where our agent can come at me. I honestly do not believe he will try to take me again, so soon. I think that he will try to ascertain what Solaris’ position is, and whether or not the Alliance is in jeopardy, due—”

He couldn’t say it; he choked up. The others gave him time to recover.

After a struggle, he got control of his voice again. “If disrupting the Alliance was this agent’s primary goal, he will want to talk to me almost as soon as I appear in the halls of the Palace. Let me go walk there, and see who comes to offer condolences and fish for information.”

“And what if this agent decides to ensure the Karsite defection by eliminating you?” Kerowyn asked quietly.

He twitched his mouth in what was supposed to be a smile. “Have you not been training me in enough self-defense to keep myself alive until help can come? Magicked weaponry is difficult to come by; if this person wishes to strike again so, soon, I think he will have to do so through conventional means. That requires skill, opportunity, and time. I will assume he has the first, I will give him the second, and I will deny him the third.” There. Hopefully, he sounded like the self-confident Karsite envoy. He certainly didn’t
feel
like the self-confident Karsite envoy.

Kerowyn continued to gnaw her lower lip. “I like it, and I don’t like it at all,” she said finally. “I don’t like it, because it puts you in so much danger, Karal. I like it, because it has a good chance of winkling out our agent. I wouldn’t ask it of you, but if you are volunteering—”

:As am I,:
Altra said, for Karal’s benefit alone.
:You were right in thinking that I can roam the corridors with you and protect you. I shall do better this time.:

“I am,” Karal said firmly. “What is more, I am ready now.”

“Well I’m not—or rather, my men aren’t.” Kerowyn reached over and patted his knee. “Give
me
a chance to get set up, say, after dinner. Don’t come to formal dinner; that will make it look as if there might be trouble with the Alliance. Then come on over and roam to your heart’s content. Among other things, you can reassure some of our own people that things haven’t deteriorated to the point of war quite yet.”

Karal sat back and let them discuss the weapon itself; they were mages, he was not, and what they had found did not mean a great deal to him. At least he could
do
something now, though. That helped, a little.

Only a little, but it was a beginning.

 

In the evenings, after formal dinner, Ulrich had often strolled in the gardens with the rest of the courtiers. During inclement weather, the same leisurely strolls took place in the hallways and the small informal audience chambers. The weather was barely warm enough for both to be in use, so Karal resigned himself to a long evening with a great deal of walking.

Most of the Valdemarans did not seem to know quite how to treat him; he
had
been the insignificant secretary, and now he was the only Karsite representative at Court, and he had dressed to reflect that rise in position, though the velvets were too warm for the indoor venue and not warm enough for the gardens. Most of the courtiers eventually opted for brief and uncomfortable expressions of regret and condolence, approaching him, making graceful but painful short speeches, and scuttling away again.

For the first few marks, no one even mentioned the fate of the Alliance, and as Karal alternately sweated and shivered, he began to wonder if this had been a fool’s errand.

The first person who did was the Seneschal, a situation so absurd that Karal almost burst into hysterical laughter. The only ones that were privy to Karal’s little ruse were the mages; Prince Daren had decided that it would be better not to let any of the Councillors in on the subterfuge, on the grounds that they were very bad actors, and would probably give the whole thing away. The Seneschal was pathetically transparent in his attempts to divine Solaris’ position from Karal’s attitude, and to keep up the illusion that Solaris was still undecided, Karal was forced to be distinctly cool to the poor man. It took all of Karal’s ability to keep from revealing the whole trick with his reaction to the poor fellow’s disappointment in learning nothing.

He eliminated the next few “fishers” on grounds that they were not likely to have a pretext that would let them move in and out of private rooms at will. Then came another long, dry spell; his sober face and black robes seemed to put people off, making their expressions of sympathy hurried and nervous.

He resigned himself to a fruitless, boring evening.

“Master Secretary?” said a squeaky voice at his elbow.

He turned, and had to think long and hard before he could identify the fellow who had greeted him. He was utterly nondescript to begin with, and had the demeanor and apparently the personality of a mole—

“—ah, my condolences, Master Secretary,” the mole said, squinting at him and twisting his hands nervously together. “You probably wouldn’t recall me. I suppose, I’m not important or wealthy or—”

The spot of green paint caught in the cuticle of one finger gave him away.

“Of course I recall you, sir,” Karal replied, in a properly subdued manner. “Master Celandine, is it not? The painter?”

“The artist, yes, and I was
terribly
grieved to hear about Master Ulrich,
terribly,”
the mole replied, his fingers knotting together until his hands resembled a nest of worms. “I hope—I pray—that your gracious mistress will not take this incident badly—oh, dear, no—that would be dreadful, dreadful—”

“I suppose from the Valdemaran point of view it would,” Karal replied, with careful neutrality. There was something about this man ... something nagging at the back of his mind.

“Oh, I’m not from Valdemar, but it would be
personally
dreadful for me all the same,” Celandine replied. “My pigments—so difficult to obtain, you understand, and before the Alliance so terribly expensive—”

A tiny thread of warning slipped down Karal’s back, and his hands went cold.
He’s always sending people off after pigments and colors, I remember him saying that when Ulrich sat for a portrait. He must have at least one package coming in every fortnight or so!
Could it be? Oh, surely not! This fellow was so ineffectual he couldn’t possibly be their quarry! Everyone at court made fun of him and his pretensions of genius!

“—I wondered if your mistress would still be interested in that official portrait, or if she would prefer to wait until the next envoy was assigned or even have
your
little sketch turned into a portrait instead?”

:Karal,:
said Altra carefully,
:I think you may have something in this one. Can you get him to take you to his studio? I may be able to find real evidence, rooting around like a cat.:

“Perhaps,” he said, assuming more dignity. “I have been given to understand that if the Alliance continues, the latter would be the most likely option.”

The mole’s tiny black eyes lit up, but before he could say anything else, Karal continued.

“That portrait of my—my Master, though, the one you mentioned,” he continued, and it did not take any acting at all for his eyes to mist over. “I would like to have it for myself. Is it anywhere near completed?”

“Oh, yes! Yes, it is!” The mole was positively babbling. “Would you care to come to my studio to view it?”

:Excellent,:
Altra applauded.
:l’ll warn Florian and he can warn Kerowyn through Sayvil. Go with him now, before he changes his mind!:

“I would very much like to see it,” Karal said in complete and sincere honesty as he wiped his eyes. “Please.”

The mole eagerly led the way down the hall toward the quarters of those who were not
quite
highborn, but were not servants, either. Altra padded along behind, tail in the air, pretending to be a housecat. The mole either didn’t notice him or didn’t care.

The mole’s studio lay at the farthest end of the corridor, and Karal had a moment of trepidation when he realized that there was no way that Kerowyn could have them followed down here without it being painfully obvious. And if the mole left the studio door open, he would see if Kerowyn sent anyone down after them. Celandine might look like he was short-sighted, but as Karal already knew, there was nothing wrong with his eyes.

:I’ll shut the door behind me,:
Altra told him
. :Just enough that he won’t be able to see down the corridor. With luck, he’ll be so excited that he won’t notice.:

That was exactly how the next few moments played out; Celandine ushered Karal into the cluttered, crowded studio with much bowing and scraping, and Altra slipped in behind them, nudging the door closed without Celandine noticing. The place was a mess, with easels and half-finished sculptures on pedestals everywhere, supplies piled on top of furniture and spilling down onto the floor, blank canvases stretched onto frames and leaning against the walls, and dust all over everything. Karal doubted that the servants ever even tried to clean in here.

In fact, the mole was only interested in getting Karal to the area where several canvases stood on easels, covered with drop cloths. He positioned Karal in front of one of them, and made a great deal of fuss about getting the lighting absolutely right, before whisking off the cloth.

Karal did not have to simulate his reaction. Whatever else the mole was, he was also a genuine and superb artist. He had captured Ulrich in one of his rare moments of relaxation; good will and humor glowed in his face, and a half-smile played on his lips.

Karal’s eyes filled, and two tears ran down his cheeks unheeded. He took an involuntary step forward; the painting only improved on closer inspection.

Celandine smiled, baring tiny teeth in an expression of greed and satisfaction at Karal’s reaction.

“My—good Master Celandine, you are—” Another tear escaped down Karal’s cheek, and he shook his head as he wiped it away. “There are no words. There are just no words. I
must
have this painting.”

Celandine fussed over the canvas, preening, as he dusted the easel unnecessarily. “Well, I must admit, I was rather pleased with the way the robes came out. You folk who affect black—oh, forgive me, but it is so difficult for an artist to render properly! This particular shade of
sebeline
along the crease for instance, that is my own little secret for simulating the sheen of good black velvet—”

He nattered on, but Karal had frozen in place at the foreign-sounding word for the streak of blue-white pigment that ran along the top of one of the sleeves in the portrait. That was not a Valdemaran term!

:No. It’s not.: The murmur of quiet noise in the background ceased, as Altra froze as well.
:Stall him, Karal! I need time to have Mindspeech with an expert!:

“How did you make the eyes look so—so—” Karal choked out.

That was enough to set Celandine off again, this time on a much longer dissertation, about reflection and transparent colors and glazes. Meanwhile, Karal waited, the back of his neck prickling, as he tried to recall if Celandine had ever been in their quarters.

Then, as Karal leaned forward to look at the painting more closely, and noted the distinctive whorls of the background, he remembered.
He was. Not only to make the preliminary sketches, either! I found him there poking at those decorations one afternoon, complaining that every time some plaster decoration cracked, the Seneschal ordered him to repair it on the grounds that he was an artist!

Celandine was a sculptor, who could probably reproduce anything he chose at will. He had access to plaster. He had put himself in a position to plant whatever he cared to by allowing the Seneschal to order him to fix broken decorations!

And all he had to do to be called into a particular room was to crack the original himself—before, during, or after the portrait-sitting.

: Karal!:
Altra called, panic in his mind-voice for the first time since Karal had met him.
:That word, it’s Imperial tongue
—
what’s more, the pigment is only mined somewhere east of Hardorn!:

Celandine had worked his way in behind Karal as he spoke of colors and pointed this or that effect out. The prickling on the back of Karal’s neck had become an agony. He tried to watch the mole out of the comer of his eye without being obtrusive.

Karal did not need Altra’s mental scream to warn him; he had sensed Celandine’s sudden movement half a breath before. Karal ducked under the blow and whirled at the same time, then dodged past the easel and the painting it held, winding up facing the artist.

No—the
agent.

The artist was gone; in his place was someone far more dangerous, and nothing at all like a mole, more like a cornered rat. Celandine’s beady black eyes glittered dangerously ; he had a mallet in one hand, and a sharp palette knife in the other. The edge of the knife had a nasty, sickly green tinge, and Karal had the sinking feeling that it wasn’t paint. “He’ll kill me, you know,” the artist said, his voice deceptively calm.

“Who?” Karal asked urgently. “What’s wrong? Why would anyone kill you?”
Stall for more time. Help has to be on the way.

“The Grand Duke. Tremane. I’m not his man. I’m expendable. I didn’t finish the job. The little birds flew, and only pecked out the heart of one of the targets.” The glitter in Celandine’s eyes wasn’t danger, it was madness. He feinted with the knife, and Karal winced backward. “He’ll kill me; he has my likeness and my hair, he can do it. Unless I finish the job, right now.”