Daughter of Mystery (28 page)

“No—not much anyway.” Barbara had never told her whether it had been easy or hard. And why not let Antuniet think she’d found it herself?

“How far have you gotten?”

They had descended the steps to the street, followed of course by the armins. On Wednesdays it was usually Marken. Barbara stuck close to her on philosophy days but for theology she was happy to trade off. And though Margerit wouldn’t have suggested it, she was just as glad to have time with Antuniet that didn’t involve Barbara scowling in the background. It seemed she couldn’t forgive her for being Estefen’s sister.

“I’ve read through the whole, but I’m still trying to work out his language. It’s nice to have names for things, I just wish they made more sense. But even having names…now I can explain,
the charis underwent concrescatio at the missus,
rather than waving my hands around and saying,
and then the colors all swirled together when he said ‘amen.’
”

Antuniet looked at her sharply. “Indeed. And is that what you see?”

“It depends. That’s the whole part I don’t understand. Why is it so often different? Why is one person’s celebration so brilliant and another’s invisible? Why is it sometimes the same, even when different mysteries are being followed? What do
you
see?” She had been hesitant to ask so blunt a question but it came tumbling out.

“I see…bits, wisps, enough to know there’s something I’m not seeing. It’s only really clear at the grand mysteries.” Antuniet stared at her thoughtfully for a minute. “Do you have time to come with me to the university chapel? I want to try something.”

Margerit turned to Marken. She knew the rules. Any unplanned venture was for him to say. He shrugged to indicate he knew of no objection. “I have time. What—”

“Not yet,” she said.

They crossed the square toward the small church that formed part of the heart of the university buildings. Halfway across a familiar long face caught her eye and she called out before her courage could falter. “Nikule! Cousin Nikule!” She might not see him in passing again for a week or more. Always before she had avoided any sign of recognition.

He stopped, both puzzled and suspicious as she closed the distance, trailed curiously by the others. The need for introductions gave her a chance to find her voice. “Nikule, may I present Mesnera Antuniet Chazillen. Antuniet, my cousin Nikule Fulpi.”

He bowed over her hand, making his best attempt to be charming as she echoed, “Fulpi? Do you perhaps know my friend Mihail Salun?” He nodded. “I’ve heard him mention the name but I never realized there was a connection.”

“Nikule,” Margerit ventured, “I’ve asked your father and mother—and your sisters, of course—to spend Christmas with me here in the city. I was hoping you could join us.”

If he was surprised, he covered it well. “But of course, cousin. I’d be delighted. Mesnera!” With a second bow to Antuniet he slipped on past.

There. It was done. One mistake needn’t tear the family peace apart. “I didn’t realize you knew my cousin,” she said.

“Hardly,” came the reply. “But eventually one always knows someone who knows everyone. It’s all just a matter of keeping your ears open and your wits about you. Shall we?” She nodded toward the church.

She pushed past the idlers in the porch and proceeded directly to the small side altar dedicated to the apostles. “I’m going to do four things. I want you to watch carefully then tell me what you saw.”

Margerit nodded somewhat bemusedly and stood just to one side where she could take in both Antuniet’s kneeling figure and the altar itself. Antuniet reminded her of one of the carved mourning figures on the old tombs in the cathedral, with her back stiff and straight, her chin raised, and her hands held clasped before her in a prayerful attitude. What was it Verunik had called her once?
Proud Antuniet!
But was it pride or only the confidence of a master craftsman? With little preamble, Antuniet launched into a careful but rapid recitation of a prayer for good fortune and especially fortune with money. Margerit guessed it was one that a gambler might be apt to mutter over his cards. Did Antuniet gamble? Probably—it was a common enough vice among the nobility and had ruined more than one fortune. Or perhaps it was simpler than that. The baron’s will had destroyed any hopes Antuniet might have had for a generous dowry. She’d never seen any hint that Antuniet was short of money but—

Her attention snapped back to the present as a brief
visio
arose: a net-like flare stretching from candle to candle along the rim of the marble platform. And then it flickered out. Margerit was about to describe it when she remembered that Antuniet had said there would be four things to watch.

The first time she had spoken the words with her hands kept still at her sides. This time she moved them: now in a sign of prayer, now raised in supplication, then closing with a brief cross. The effect was much the same as before. In the third repetition the prayer was changed slightly—just a word here and there—but in response the net of holy light glowed and held fast, lingering in the darkness after the words died away.

With the last repetition, she drew out of her purse a new wax candle and lit it to stand with the others as she wove the altered prayer. The response flared brilliantly enough that Margerit gasped in surprise. As Antuniet signed herself and rose she said, “The fourth one then,” with a tone of satisfaction.

“Can’t you see it?” Margerit asked, amazed that all eyes in the church hadn’t turned toward them.

Antuniet’s eyes narrowed. “No. At least, not enough to tell the difference between them.” She reached out and snuffed the candle wick between her fingers, tipping out the small pool of melted wax and returning it to her purse.

“It’s gone,” Margerit said quickly as the net too snuffed out.

“Interesting. Well, that would explain certain things. We’re done here.”

Those ten minutes had left her mind reeling. Could you experiment like that? As if you were testing a recipe? As they emerged into the daylight again she started and abandoned several questions until Antuniet stopped and demanded, “Well?”

The questions she wanted to ask all seemed too dangerous. At least Barbara was teaching her some caution. She fell back on the merely rude. “Why don’t you hate me for taking your brother’s inheritance?”

Antuniet blinked at her in confusion then broke a rare smile. “Is that what you expect? My brother is a fool. Marziel loved nothing more than intrigues and games. Estefen thought he could win against him in the end. He was a fool and he took the rest of us with him. But I don’t recall it being said that you threatened my uncle into changing his will. Or that you seduced him on his deathbed.”

Margerit felt her face burning in mortification.

“So I fail to see on what basis I should blame you for my lack of prospects.”

In a debate on logic it would have been a presentation of the simple truth. But it never seemed possible to discern Antuniet’s real thoughts behind her wit. And she sometimes seemed to speak truth to hide truth.

“Then we are friends?” Margerit ventured.

“No,” she replied with a firm shake of her head. “But I think we have certain interests that lie together. You have questions. I know where some of the answers can be found. And you have skills that I find useful. In comparison with that, friendship is an uncertain thing.”

* * *

The betrothal of Charul Pertinek and Bertrut Sovitre was announced formally at a small family dinner held by Lord and Lady Marzim. As everyone who attended the dinner was already well aware of the situation, the announcement was repeated for more public consumption at Mesnera Arulik’s salon the next evening. Aunt Bertrut blushed and glowed as if she were a girl again and if Mesner Pertinek were anything less than proud and happy, no one could have proven it. Listening to gossip afterward, Margerit found people divided equally as to who had the advantage in the match. One opinion seemed universal, although she overheard it only by chance while talking with Verunik in a secluded window seat.

“It makes no difference to the prospects of the little Sovitre, of course.” The voice came around the corner, not meant for her hearing. “No one who found her fortune sufficient would be put off by a lack of titled connections.”

Verunik reached for her hand and squeezed it gently. “Don’t you mind them,” she said kindly.

But Margerit hardly gave a thought to what others thought of her marriage prospects. She was rather relieved that the trickle of proposals her uncle had fielded had fallen off with his departure. Aunt Bertrut might have a guardian’s authority, but evidently fortune-seeking young gentlemen were less inclined to lay their case before her. She giggled at a sudden thought.

“What?” Verunik asked.

“I will wager you—that is, I won’t really wager because Aunt Sovitre wouldn’t like it—but watch and see. Before the night is out, someone will petition my soon-to-be Uncle Pertinek for his influence in winning my hand. He may yet be sorry for making his offer!”

Chapter Thirty-Six

Barbara

Her shadows had broken the rules. They had never agreed to any rules, of course, but she’d told herself,
As long as they never show when I’m with Margerit, it doesn’t put her at risk
, and
As long as they never follow me north of the river, it doesn’t touch on my job.
There was one who always seemed to be loitering at the end of the Pont Ruip when she crossed the river heading for Perret’s academy in the morning. He was never there afterward—not that she ever saw. There was one who had followed her past the Tupendor Gate when she rode out on an errand for LeFevre.

There had been more books to hunt down at Eskamer’s shop; more recommendations from Antuniet. At least this time there’d been no dissembling about where the idea came from. That had bothered her more than the source. This time they were titles she recognized. Not dangerous, as such, but could any book be considered truly safe when the reason it was so hard to find was that no printer cared to take a chance on it? To keep matters simple with Eskamer she had used the same disguise as before. Perhaps he’d seen through it as the shadow had, but he’d understand the purpose. And though her shadow was a different man this time, she knew the masque was pointless on that end already.

But the next day they broke the rules. After lectures were done, as she and Margerit sheltered from the rain in the arcade around the Plaiz Vezek while a boy was sent for the carriage, the man from Pont Ruip stumbled by in the guise of a lame beggar, making his pitch to Margerit from a safe distance. When she began to reach for her purse, Barbara stepped in between them, touching her sword hilt and warning him off. He made a good enough show of cringing as he scuttled away that Margerit chided, “Was that necessary?”

“He isn’t what he seems,” she answered.

“Few of them are, after all.”

Barbara left the matter. While there was any way to avoid it, Margerit had no need to know. She itched to challenge them, but over what? The nobility might start duels over a look or a gesture, but she would need something more solid.

Several days later, the same man—all clean and tidy and in the clothing of a hired hackman—was mingling with the carriage drivers waiting outside the cathedral after Mass. He had been talking with Margerit’s coachman, looking at one of the horses. Barbara checked her impulse to dart forward and looked around instead. Was he only a feint? When he saw her in the approaching party he touched his hat and grinned at her and slipped behind the carriage to disappear.

They’d broken the rules. And even if it were just to torment her, she couldn’t let it stand. A word to the coachman—she had no serious doubts about him—and the grim look on her face let the others know something was amiss. She explained in as simple terms as she could when the front door of Tiporsel House was shut behind them. Bertrut accepted her reassurances but Margerit demanded more details later when they were alone.

Barbara searched for the line between truth and discretion. “I really know nothing more than I told you before,” she offered. “I don’t know who he is or what he hopes to gain by having me followed—only that he claims I owe him some unspecified sum. LeFevre says I have nothing to fear under the law regarding the debt but if I strike at these men without cause then I cross the line and I won’t bring that trouble on your head.”

Margerit was outraged. “But you’re protecting yourself!”

She shook her head. “No I’m not, not yet. They haven’t attacked me, only followed me. If I thought they threatened you, it would be different. The law is quite generous on the question of an armin’s license. What he did today was close to the edge but I think they’re trying to goad me into going too far. What I don’t know is why—what it would gain him. Whoever he is.”

“What sort of debt could he possibly think you owe him? How could you not know what it is?”

“I think—” She hesitated. Margerit knew her history, enough of it at least. But the last time the topic had come up it had caused a quarrel between them. “I can only assume it has to do with my father.”

A frown crossed Margerit’s brow. “But that would mean he knows who your father was.”

It should have occurred to her before. She turned the thought over in her mind to examine from different angles. “I suppose he must. But what does it matter? After all, LeFevre must know as well, but that’s never been any use to me. Even now he just gives me riddles about legal precedents and a promise that everything will work out. And Mesnera Chazillen—the baron’s sister—I assume she might know whose orphan her brother had taken into his household. So my unknown creditor knows as well; what am I supposed to do? Go begging for the answer?” She recalled that first encounter in the empty warehouse.
Barbara No-name
. He knew—and knew she didn’t. He’d been taunting her with that. No, she wouldn’t beg. Not from him and certainly not from the Chazillens. “The only thing I need to know is how to get rid of these shadows without causing trouble for you.”