Between Worlds: the Collected Ile-Rien and Cineth Stories (5 page)

“Sadly, yes,” Reynard told her.

“But the worst is--” Belina glanced at her mother. “He
has images. I didn’t pose for them. I don’t know how he got them.”

“Disgusting images.” Lady Shankir-Clare’s grip
tightened on her fan until it cracked.

“Photographs?”
Oh, hell
, Reynard thought. That
was going to be tricky.

“Yes.” Belina’s composure didn’t slip, but he could
tell it was taking her a great effort. “Of me. With no clothes. Only it isn’t
my body. He said he made them with magic, that there’s no way to prove they
aren’t real. I mean, I can tell it isn’t my body, and my maid can tell, and my
sisters, but--”

“I understand.” Reynard stopped her. Amadel was
obviously trying not to writhe with embarrassment and looked on the verge of
jumping up and leaving the room. Lady Shankir-Clare was gritting her teeth. “The
photographs are fake, but you have no way to prove that.” It could be done by
the relatively simple method of cutting apart two different images, combining
the pieces, and then taking another photograph. One could penetrate the
deception by a close examination with a magnifying glass. But Nicholas had
shown him images that had been magically manipulated, and they were much harder
to prove false. The method didn’t matter; the humiliation and distress the
images would create if displayed publicly were very real. Bad enough for it to
happen to anyone with a reputation to risk, but that it should happen to a
sheltered child was just that much worse.
I’ll just have to kill him
,
Reynard thought.
Well, I was probably going to do that anyway.
The
problem would be in getting the photographs away from the bastard so they
couldn’t fall into any worse hands.

He kept his expression mild. “Did he know who you
were? A Shankir-Clare?”

Belina frowned. Reynard felt the implications of the
question hadn’t eluded her. She said, slowly, “He called me by name, but I had
never met him before. Someone told me who he was later.”

Just to make it plain, Reynard said, “Somehow he knew
he could insult you without consequences?”

Lady Shankir-Clare’s expression turned thoughtful,
then even more angry. Belina appeared to be biting back a curse. Lady
Shankir-Clare said, “So he knew about our quarrel with the court sorcerer.”

“Or someone else put him up to it.” Reynard glanced at
Belina. “He’s asked for a meeting? The photographs in exchange for money?”

She nodded grimly. “Two nights from now, at the opera.”

It was always dangerous to deal with a criminal
sorcerer, especially one who asked for private meetings. The opera was warded,
but only for the general protection of the building. Unless the man intended to
use magic to blow it up or set it on fire, the wards wouldn’t interfere. “I can’t
escort you -- my reputation would draw stares, and we don’t want to be noticed.”
The opera drew as many noble and upper-class patrons as it did demi monde and
every other class who could afford the tickets. Too many people might recognize
Belina and wonder why she was with Captain Reynard Morane. There was just no
story to explain why the Shankir-Clares would ask him to escort their daughter
to the opera, even if there had been some family connection. “I’ll be there,
nearby, and I have a friend -- a suitable, unobjectionable friend -- to escort
you.”

“You can protect her?” Lady Shankir-Clare’s voice was
tight.

Reynard stood. “My lady, no one will touch her. And
this man will not trouble you again.”          

Lady Shankir-Clare smiled grimly. Then Belina ruined
it by demanding, “Are you going to kill him?”

Amadel winced. Lady Shankir-Clare said, forbiddingly, “Belina.”

Reynard found it more politic to withdraw than answer.
He bowed, and followed Amadel out.

* * *

On the afternoon of the next day, Reynard stood on the
landing of Idilane’s flat, while Nicholas worked the lock. The building was on
a relatively quiet street with flats too small for families, and so inhabited
mostly by young office workers who were absent during the day. Nicholas had
discovered that Idilane did indeed travel between Vienne and Lodun on the
express, and wouldn’t return until tomorrow morning. With the concierge
currently out doing her shopping, they shouldn’t be disturbed.

“Will your sorcerer friend be of any use?” Reynard
asked.

Nicholas, still occupied by the lock, winced. “He’s
not well right now.” The tumblers clicked and Nicholas stood and turned the
handle.

Reynard didn’t move. It was never a good idea to shove
one’s way into a sorcerer’s domain, even a student sorcerer. But Nicholas
stepped inside, explaining, “The flats have a general cleaning woman. He can’t
have warded the place.”

“Then let’s get started.” The flat held only one room,
but it was large enough for a bed, a desk, dresser, and comfortable seating
area.

After some time, Reynard stood in the middle of the
room, dissatisfied. He had mainly been hoping to find the photographs, which
would simplify any decisions about their next course of action, but they weren’t
here. The search had been exhaustive, including Nicholas using various devices
to uncover sorcerous hiding places.

“He’s got them on him,” Nicholas said finally,
circling the room like a prowling cat. “I didn’t think he would be that clever.”

“Something’s wrong,” Reynard said. Nicholas lifted his
brows, and Reynard sighed. “I don’t know what it is, I just have an odd
feeling.” He looked around again. “Bit of a stage set, do you think?”

“No, I’m certain he lives here.” But Nicholas paced
the room, frowning. He moved to the desk again. “The books, the notes he’s
taken, I’m certain he’s a student of sorcery from Lodun. There are things here
no one would know to fake.” Nicholas spoke from experience, having attended
Lodun himself, and closely associating with the sorcery students.

Reynard had to admit the disheveled appearance of the
furnishings certainly seemed authentic. Then that elusive sense of wrongness
solidified. He said, “There are no love letters, no dirty postcards, no
prophylactics, none of that sort of thing. Not even a salacious novel.” There
were other letters, from other students, from distant relatives, from tailors
and so forth. But nothing from a woman, not even a cousin or aunt. And none of
the letters from male students indicated any romantic or erotic relationship.

Nicholas didn’t appear to find this particularly
enlightening. “I never had that sort of thing as a student.”

“Of course you didn’t. But this young man, as far as
we can tell, is a slimy little ass. So why doesn’t he have any of the things
even nice young men have? From his behavior toward our employer, you’d think he
would have left a trail of betrayed young women in his wake. Is Miss
Shankir-Clare the first he’s accosted? That seems unlikely.”

“I think
The Lady’s Letters
is salacious.”
Nicholas poked through the drawers, looking for hidden compartments again.

Reynard turned to the bookshelves. “Does he have a
copy? I didn’t see it.”

“No, I had a copy.” Nicholas straightened up. “I see
what you mean. If we didn’t already have an account of his character, I would think
we were looking at the room of a young monk. Someone could posit that his
behavior was an aberration, the act of a spoiled silly young man thwarted for
the first time in his short life, except--”

“For the photographs, and the criminal demand for money,”
Reynard finished. “And the knowledge that her highly-placed family will not be
able to go to the court sorcerer for help.”

“Yes.” Nicholas made another circuit of the room. “Perhaps
he has so many letters from discarded lovers he keeps them somewhere else.”

“The meeting is tomorrow. There’s no time to uncover
any other hiding places.”

Nicolas smiled. “Then it seems we’re all going to the
opera.”

* * *

Reynard called for Belina two days later at half past
seven, which would have her arriving at the opera far earlier in the evening
than he ever had before. The demi monde didn’t usually roll in until close to
the interval, but people of Belina’s set would arrive well in time for the
beginning of the performance.

The coach he had brought was unmarked, though the
driver was well known to Reynard and would be happy to step in if anyone needed
to be beaten unconscious. Reynard separated Belina from her mother, Amadel, and
an anxious maid, escorted her outside, and handed her into the coach.

Once they were settled and clopping down the street,
he explained, “My friend will join us on the way. If anyone asks, tell them he’s
been commissioned by your family to acquire a painting, and he’s escorting you
tonight as a favor to them.” Reynard took in her lack of expression, and
somewhat tight grip on her reticule. Her gown was a wine-colored silk, and
looked lovely on her, though the lack of décolletage suggested it had been
chosen by her mother or a sensible maid. “He isn’t going to proposition you.”

The set of Belina’s shoulders relaxed a little. She
asked, a little mulish and a little plaintive, “Why not?”

“You’re too young for him, for one thing. For the
other...” Reynard tried to think of a succinct way to explain Nicholas and gave
up. “He just isn’t going to proposition you.”

Belina nodded understanding. “He doesn’t like women?”

“He doesn’t like anyone.”

“Why are you helping us? Helping me. Amadel said he
had the impression you really didn’t care about the money, or if you were paid
or not.”

Amadel was perceptive. It was really too bad he wasn’t
interested in an assignation. Reynard explained, “A friend of mine was targeted
by a blackmailer. It didn’t end well for him. Reducing the number of
blackmailers in the city provides me with some comfort.”

Belina leaned forward. “So you are going to kill him.”

“Belina.” Reynard regarded her patiently. “In the
circle in which you are traveling tonight, we don’t ask that sort of question.”

She thumped back against the seat. “But what if it was
my fault? What if I caused him to do this--”

“To make sorcerously-created obscene photographs? He
didn’t come up with that because he was so stricken by the awkward rebuff of,
forgive me, a schoolgirl who then apologized for her actions. He’s done this
before.” Even if it was the first time, even if there was no plan or ulterior
motive, a sorcerer who would do this was plainly a menace. It was Idilane’s
misfortune that he had chosen the wrong victim.

Belina still frowned, but clearly decided to table the
argument for another time.

* * *

Ten blocks from the opera, as the coach paused to wait
for a cabriolet to clear the way, the door opened. Nicholas swung inside and
dropped into the seat opposite Belina. He was dressed impeccably for the opera,
in a dark suit with a light-colored waistcoat, and a hat and cane.

Reynard said hastily, “Miss Belina Shankir-Clare, this
is Nicholas Valiarde.”

Nicholas frowned. “How old are you? Should you even be
out without a chaperone?”

Belina shared a glance with Reynard, her expression
eloquent. “I think I’ve got a chaperone,” she muttered.

Reynard asked Nicholas, “Do you have it?”

Nicholas produced a glass ball, small enough to fit
into the palm of his hand. “Of course.”

Belina leaned forward. “What is it?”

Reynard told Belina, “It’s a spell that will distract
and confuse a sorcerer for a few moments, and prevent him from using his
powers.” It wouldn’t trouble any serious practitioner, but from what Nicholas
had said, the things were designed to work on Lodun sorcery students and used
by them to bedevil each other at parties. It would provide an instant of
distraction at the right moment, which was all they might need.

Nicholas lifted the shade over the window to check the
street. “It’s clear.”

Reynard just hoped Arisilde Damal had been relatively
sober when he had provided it. He shifted over and put a hand on the doorlatch.
“I’ll see you later, Miss Shankir-Clare.”

Belina nodded anxiously, and Reynard swung the door
open and stepped out onto the walk. The coach clattered away, and Reynard
adjusted his coat, and started to walk toward the theater district.

* * *

Reynard arrived just at twilight, taking up a position
across the street where he had a good view of the the opera’s grand main
entrance. Classical statues were carved into the façade and gilded figures danced
above the pediment, and the fountains with ornamental lamps that stood in front
of the building provided a shadow-show of moving light and water. The area was
already noisy with early arrivals and the flower and sweet sellers and drink
vendors were setting up along the opposite promenade. Reynard strolled over to
one and ordered a coffee.

Coaches arrived sporadically and deposited minor
nobility or wealthy patrons, dressed in their formal fashionable best. A number
of people of the less fashionable sets were walking in, it being easier to have
a cabriolet drop you off at the corner than fight its way into the line of
personal coaches. Though it wasn’t quite as crowded as usual tonight. Reynard
attributed that to the fact that the performance was the old standby
Life of
the Good Duke
, put on to keep the company warm and up to scratch before the
real opening of the season next month. Nicholas had pointed out that it made an
excellent cover, since it was an opera that people often took young relatives
to, because they were the only ones who weren’t sick to death of it. It was
just not the sort of opera that the Gamethon Club attended to be rowdy at.