The Spirit Lens (31 page)

I threw myself on my horse and pushed the poor beast unmercifully all the way to Merona.

CHAPTER FIFTEEN

23 QAT 38 DAYS UNTIL THE ANNIVERSARY

T
he morning air hung heavy and damp in the bustling passages and courtyards of Castelle Escalon. I ducked my head as I forged through the ever-moving river of courtiers and servants. The sense would not leave me that anyone I
noticed
would turn up dead.

I had arrived the previous evening after two long days on the road, only to find the tally of the fallen grown to yet more dire proportions. Waiting in my apartments was a message from a devastated Ilario. Mage Orviene’s adept Fedrigo, Ilario’s favored maker of crocodile charms and stomach elixirs, was reported knifed in a tavern brawl near the docks and thrown dead into the river. And beside Ilario’s scented paper lay a letter scribed in my own hand, still sealed, returned along with a message informing me that the Marqués and Marquesa de Marangel and their two young sons had met an unfortunate fate. An
explosion of devil’s firework
had devoured Ophelie’s home and family not a tenday past. Someone felt us on the trail of discovery. Every hour since learning this news had been filled with a creeping dread, the first tremors of an earthshaking that set birds and beasts to flight.

My morning’s first task was to settle the matter that had gnawed at my vitals all the way from Seravain. Henri de Sain, third secretary to the palace steward, was my quarry of the moment. Assuming
he
lived.

Henri was sweeping his private office, which was not at all private and very unlike an office, being little more than a closet off the stone-floored, north-wing undercroft. Casks, trunks, and teetering stacks of crates shared the vast undercroft with a legion of undersecretaries, paymasters, footmen, draymen, and ladies’ maids.

“Divine grace, Henri,” I said, as if our two brief encounters had made us personal friends, “I just wanted to thank you again for the recommendation of your tailor. As soon as I’ve pay in hand, I’m determined to give him fair custom.”

“Oh, very good,” he said, looking a bit surprised as I occupied his stool, drawing up my knees and wrapping my arms round as if set to stay awhile. He set his broom in the corner and brushed off his sleeves. “Is there something I can do for you, Sonjeur de”—his eyes darted to my exposed left hand—“Savin-Duplais, is it? Portier?”

I bobbed my head. “Honestly, you’re the only person in the palace who’s been civil, so I didn’t think you’d mind another inquiry. I’ve just returned from Collegia Seravain whence I shipped three book crates back here for this wolfhound of a mage, Dante.” I screwed up my face in disgust. “The taverner told me a dreadful story about a crate that had been dropped in her yard, only to find a
dead man
in it. A
corpus
. . . to be shipped
here
to Castelle Escalon, she said! And not respectfully in a decent coffin as a family might do, with a verger’s blessings and proper pall over all, but curled up tight in a nailed-up box as one would never suspect. Have you ever heard of such wickedness?”

“Nay.” His nostrils flared in distaste. “Such a violation would be—”

“Exactly so. But you see”—I dropped my voice, drawing him nearer with every word—“I recalled that stinking crate you had in here not a tenday ago, just before the fire on the
Swan
, and it gives me the frights to think it might have been a corpse, as well. And I’m wondering—This Dante has already laid threats on me, you see. I’m bound by my duties to deal with him, but if he’s the one shipping corpses about the kingdom or having them sent, I’m thinking to resign my post and hie me back to academe.”

Henri’s knotted brow softened. “You needn’t fear, good Portier. He’s neither sent nor received any parcel whatsoever. That particular nasty crate—living mushrooms as I recall, destined for an apothecary in Mattefriese—originated with the least likely person to be engaged in abominations of any kind, Damoselle ney Billard herself.”

The sunlight pouring into the dusty hall dimmed to gray. I heard myself laughing and prating about foolish anxieties and country superstitions. But all the time Maura’s own words crowded my memory. “Some matters we cannot alter. Some promises we cannot undo.” Eugenie herself had stitched only the new DESTINNE ensign on the celebration banners. Who but Maura would have seen to the ordering of linen and hiring of seamstresses and the delivery of the finished rolls? Maura, the queen’s trusted household administrator, who had been unstrung since the fire on the
Swan
. And Mattefriese lay on the Louvel-Arabascan border, the last town of any size between Merona and Eltevire. Blessed angels . . .

My spirit recoiled. Rebelled. Yet, as if I had split into two persons at once, Portier,
agente confide
, nattered with Henri about his busy life in the palace, and all the crates and bundles that came through the palace, exclaiming how easy it must be to get them confused.

“As do you, I keep a journal,” he said. “Everyone says I can recall names and dates and sizes as some recall their children’s birth stars and lineage.” Flushed, he waved off my feigned amazement. “I’ll send notice when your boxes arrive. Then you’ll be finished with this fearsome Dante. A footman I know saw the mage set fire to his food with his eyes. He was at table with the queen’s ladies and claimed the meat was off. And the maid who washes his linen swears he can see through walls, as he forever opens the door before she knocks! Could that be true?”

“I’d put no outlandish talent past him,” I said, truthfully. “But I’d best hush. What if he finds out I’ve spoken ill of him?”

Henri blanched.

“One more small thing,” I said. “You’ve surely heard about this event Lord Ilario plans for Prince Desmond’s deathday? I’ll need banners to be made. . . .”

Numb already, I was scarce surprised to hear that the palace seamstress who had sewn the banners for the
Swan
had slit her wrists, horrified that her faithful work had been used to endanger her king.

The third secretary would make a fine, credible witness, said I, the king’s chosen
agente
, a lunatic who had dared imagine that out of this snarl of ghosts and murders something new and good might take root in his own sorry life. I made it as far as the wide steps of whorled marble that led into the queen’s wing of the palace before I dived into a small fragrance garden to be sick.

The heaving seemed to purge my head as well as my stomach. Maura could
not
be involved in these crimes. I did not question my growing certainty that Henri’s crate had held a living prisoner, but any of two hundred people could have attached Maura’s name to it. She did favors for everyone in the queen’s household. And surely fifty other people had been involved with the delivery of the banners to the
Swan
. Unlike her mistress, Maura had boarded the ship.

Questioned outright, she could surely provide an explanation for everything . . . only I could not ask. Secrecy must be maintained. Exoneration was not my prerogative. My charge was to gather evidence, make linkages, investigate, deduce.

I wiped my mouth on my sleeve and plucked mint leaves from a spreading plant. Chewing the pungent leaves, I headed for the east wing and Ilario’s apartments, speeding through the curved window gallery that displayed the ruddy rooftops of Merona. I would task Ilario with saving Lianelle ney Cazar, and then persuade Dante to come with me to Eltevire. Unmask the true conspiracy, find the murderers, and all would be clear.

“Duplais!”

I near jumped out of my skin. A firm hand on my sleeve drew me out of the stream of footmen and maidservants to the window wall. “I’ve been hoping to speak with you, and here you manifest in my own haunts.”

“Mage Orviene!” Every distraction receded as I bestowed my entire attention on the neat little man with pomaded hair, silver collar, and pleasant smile. I inclined my back. “Divine grace, sir. How may I serve you? ”

His wide, soft features drew into a focused concern. “Excuse my abruptness, Sonjeur de Duplais, but I hoped you might be able to enlighten a grievous darkness.”

“Whatever I can.” Curiosity scorched my mouth dry.

“My assistant, Fedrigo, has gone missing for more than a tenday. A reliable report says he’s been stabbed in a brawl and drowned, but I”—a nervous finger rubbed his rounded chin—“I cannot accept it. Drigo was an abstemious man, not at all inclined to gaming or rowdiness. I’m extremely worried about him.”

Had I charms or amulets or enchanted swords to defend myself, every one would have been raised. Why would Orviene come to
me
with this?

“A grievous matter indeed,” I said carefully, “but I scarce see how I can help you. Though my employer ever sings Adept Fedrigo’s praises, I’ve met the fellow only once.”

Orviene propped himself on the window seat and examined me with a sharp, wry glance. He cleared his throat. “Well, this
is
about your employer. Lord Ilario frequently hires Fedrigo for private spellworking, so I thought perhaps he might know why the lad might have gone down to Riverside or whom he might have met there. But your chevalier forever behaves as if I am a goblin lurking in his closet and refuses to speak with me beyond formalities. If
you
could enlighten me, I’d need not bother your master. And truly . . .” Of a sudden, the mage’s whole posture shifted, as if a mask had dropped away. “My apprentices are as sons to me, Acolyte Portier. Drigo has no family save his mother in Delourre. How can I write her of his death, offering no more explanation than drunken foolery? She cannot even claim his remains.”

The world stilled. “His body’s not been found, then,” I said.

The mage motioned me to bend my head closer. “You’ll have heard whispers of the resurgent evil abroad in Merona, and that the practice might even be linked to the events on the
Swan
. I wish I could declare such rumor false. Any with a marked hand is at risk. I’ve urged my aides to stay wary, and so you should, as well. I fear greatly for Drigo’s fate.”

No trace of the bantering courtier remained, but only a sincerely troubled man afraid his missing apprentice might face a death more terrible than a tavern rowdy’s blade in his craw. Dared I believe him?

“I can try to find out, sir mage,” I said, slowly. “Naturally, I could not betray Lord Ilario’s confidence.”

“I’d never presume that.”

“But if he knows aught of your assistant, I’ll let you know.”

“I would be most grateful.” He offered his hand, palm up, requesting a trust bond—an old-fashioned custom among magical practitioners. Though I had no magic to forego, I laid my palm on his without qualm. Warm and steady, his hand conveyed no ill.

“Mage,” I said, seizing an opportunity unexpected, “if you’ve evidence . . . or suspicion . . . that the fire on the
Swan
was linked to illicit practice, should not the Camarilla be warned? So many died.”

One small hand flew to his mouth; the other jittered in a vigorous denial. “Merciful saints,” he whispered, eyeing the passing maidservants and courtiers. “Forget the ravings of a loose tongue. Of all men, you should understand my position. Do I speak my suspicions, all will name it jealousy and ambition, an attempt to divert attention from my own . . . limitations. Even so, if the murderous fire
itself
gave me pause, I would speak out. But, it was not in the crime but in the remedy I felt the stirring of strength . . . extraordinary.”

“In the caelomancy, then,” I said. “You believe transference enhanced the magic wielded to bring the rain?” That jibed with Dante’s experience.

He winced at the word spoken aloud. “We all reached for strength beyond our own that day. That was likely what I felt. If you hear aught of Fedrigo . . .”

“I’ll inform you right away, of course.”

Orviene could certainly be accused of jealousy and ambition. Gaetana was a master mage and the queen’s First Counselor, privy to the queen’s secrets, always first to be consulted, always at her right hand. No matter Orviene’s popularity with courtiers and servants, it must appear impossible to gain ground on her. Was this only a play for sympathy or did he suspect my role? I could get no firm sense of the man.

I watched the mage hurry up the queen’s stair, then turned into the passage where the three mages had their apartments. Morning light revealed naught but dancing dust motes. When I rapped on Dante’s door, enchantment grazed my knuckles like broken glass.

“He’ll not answer.”

I lurched around and slammed my back to the door. Truly, the morning had my nerves shredded.

A dark young man in adept’s gray lugged a desk toward me, a stool upended on its top. His sharp features and trim beard looked vaguely familiar, which could likely be said of every young male adept in Sabria. Every one of them had passed through Seravain’s library at some time or other. And every one of them grew a manly beard once he escaped the collegia’s strictures.

“Is the mage away, then?” I asked, lending him a hand with the heavy table.

“Not that I know. He’s only given up answering the door.” He bobbed his head toward the stretch of wall beside Dante’s door. “Just there, if you would.”

We placed the desk as he wished, and he unstacked the stool, setting himself on it to catch his breath. “If the door is locked and warded, even I can’t get in, which is why I’ve commandeered this desk. I’m hopeful that if I demonstrate a resolute spirit, my new master will decide he can use me after all.”

“You’re Master Dante’s new assistant.” Curse my distracted mind, where had I seen him?

He entwined his long fingers and rested them on the desk. “I confess it. Assigned three days ago. I’ve hopes of learning a great deal once he allows me into his chamber. You’re the librarian from Seravain, the royal cousin. I’m greatly reassured that you survived your fiery resignation.”

The deadhouse! This was Conte Bianci’s adept. Recalling my craven posturing on that night set my complexion ablaze. “Aye, that’s me,” I said. “My temperament is ill suited to violence.”