Flight Into Darkness (15 page)

With a sigh, he took up the letter and went to the desk to work out the encryption. About ten minutes later, he looked up and said, “We're to be guests of the Francian ambassador to Muscobar, Fabien d'Abrissard. A coach has been arranged to take us cross-country to the River Nieva. From there, we travel by ship to the capital.”

The coach jolted violently and Celestine grabbed at the leather strap to keep herself from being flung into Jagu's lap.

“Another pothole,” he said, grimacing. “The Emperor needs to put some money into improving the public highways in Muscobar.”

“You'd rather be on horseback, wouldn't you?” Celestine said, righting herself and smoothing out her skirts. It felt odd to be wearing a dress after so many weeks dressed as a boy.

He gave a terse grunt. He was a Guerrier; of course he would rather be outside in the fresh air.

In Khazan, Celestine had indulged in the luxury of a long bath, scraping the ingrained dirt of travel from her body, lathering with sweet lavender-scented soap. Jagu had shaved off the many weeks’ growth of dark beard and, with clean-washed hair and smartly dressed in a well-tailored jacket and breeches of charcoal grey, no longer looked like a vengeful prophet or mad Azhkendi monk.

“If only it were winter, then we could travel by troika. Wouldn't that be romantic? Wrapped up in furs, skimming over the snow, listening to the chiming of the sleigh bells…”

“It was good of the Francian ambassador to send this coach to bring us from Khazan to Mirom,” Jagu allowed.

“Ambassador d'Abrissard and the Maistre are old friends, I believe,” Celestine said. She couldn't help smiling as she remembered the first time Ruaud de Lanvaux had introduced them…

“Why are they doing that?” Jagu pointed out of the window at the farmworkers who had stopped at the side of the road as they drove past, all bowing respectfully. “We're not royalty.”

“As I understand it, the peasants here are little more than bond slaves to their noble landlords. Or so Count Velemir told me once.

That's why they behave so deferentially. I wonder if the new emperor will change all that… although it won't make him very popular with the Mirom aristocracy…”

Celestine joined Jagu up on deck as their ship slowly approached the city of Mirom, to hear Jagu let out a low whistle.

“Look over there.”

A great number of five-masted men-o'-war lay at anchor in the naval dockyard close to the magnificent colonnaded facade of Admiralty House.

“They must be the Emperor's war fleet,” she said. “Can you make out any names?”

Jagu took out his little spyglass and trained it on the forest of masts. “The
Rogned.”
He turned to her. “The flagship of the Tielen Southern Fleet! Something's up, Celestine, can't you sense it?”

Celestine did not like to think what the presence of this vast fleet assembling so near the Straits might mean for Francia. “We must alert the ambassador.”

“Yet it's so blatant.” Jagu continued to scan the vessels. “Perhaps it's just a show of strength, designed to warn off any potential rivals.”

“We can't assume anything when it comes to Eugene of Tielen.”

It was a taxing piece of navigation for the ship's master to negotiate the narrow waterways, as the ship, jostled by the many merchantmen and smaller craft, eventually reached the city docks at Mirom.

“Our best plan is to head straight for the embassy and consult Ambassador d'Abrissard.” Celestine was leafing through the correspondence from the ambassador. A vile stench, so strong it almost made her retch, wafted across the bows. She clapped one hand to cover her mouth and nose. “What is
that?”

“The tanneries, I'd guess,” Jagu said. “Mirom has a thriving trade in fur and skins.”

“Don't tell me, you endured far worse in Enhirre?”

“It's so hot there that dead flesh rots in a matter of—”

“Yes, yes.” She raised one hand to silence him; he had regaled her on too many occasions with his tales of his time in the desert. “Now, when was our first engagement, tomorrow night?”

A sudden keen gust of wind almost blew the papers from her hand.

“You should go below,” Jagu said sternly. “Breathing in this air is bad for your vocal cords.”

She glared at him. They had been making music together since they
were students, yet he still treated her as if she were a child. The fact that he was right only increased her annoyance.

“Welcome to Mirom.” Fabien d'Abrissard rose from his desk to greet them. A couple of secretaries discreetly scuttled out a side door. Celestine curtsied and Jagu bowed to the ambassador. “Demoiselle, you look more lovely each time I see you.”

She caught a sardonic glint in his keen glance. “You flatter me, Ambassador,” she replied dryly.

“I meant it, dear Celestine.” Abrissard abandoned the formal tone and reached out to shake Jagu's hand. “Lieutenant. It's good to see a familiar face from Lutèce. How is Maistre de Lanvaux?”

“He sends his warmest greetings,” said Celestine, and handed him the folder of letters.

“Let's have some tea.” Abrissard tugged the brocade bellpull and a tall, distinguished-looking butler brought in a silver tray of tea. “We'll serve ourselves, Claude,” said Abrissard. “You can go.”

Claude withdrew, his lips pursed in a slight curl of disdain.

“Claude is such a stickler for etiquette,” said Abrissard, “but we need to talk, and if we'd waited until he had served tea in the correct manner, we'd have lost valuable time. Cream? Sugar?”

“Cream… and a little sugar,” said Celestine, who had longed for such treats during their time on the road.

“Black for me, thank you.” Jagu rose to take the delicate porcelain cup and saucer. Celestine saw that Abrissard was barely hiding a smile.

“Mortification of the flesh, even when it comes to tea, eh, Lieutenant? Be a little kind to your stomach in Muscobar; they take their tea very strong here. I thank God for Claude, who knows exactly how long to steep the leaves to extract the most subtle flavor.”

“We caught sight of the Southern Fleet setting sail,” said Jagu.

The playful little smile faded.

Jagu leaned forward in his chair. “It's not just assembling for show, is it? Is Francia in danger?”

“We know that Eugene has a significant tactical advantage over every other country in the quadrant.” Fabien d'Abrissard lowered his voice. “The Tielens have developed a means of communicating directly over vast distances, just as I am talking to you now.”

Celestine started, almost spilling her tea into the saucer. Her father's invention: the Vox Aethyria, stolen by Kaspar Linnaius.

“How does such a system work?” Jagu's habitual frown had reappeared.

“As far as we know, it involves two machines that send and convey the voice through the air.”

Jagu's frown deepened. “That sounds suspiciously like a device that uses the Forbidden Arts.”

“If we could capture one of these machines and discover its secrets, then Francia could be so much better placed to defend herself against Eugene's ambitions.”

“You'd use Eugene's devices against him?” Celestine stared at the ambassador.

“We'd be foolish not to,” Abrissard said bluntly. “So, make the most of your time in the Winter Palace to learn everything you can about the Emperor. It's an invaluable opportunity.”

As Celestine descended the embassy staircase, the dark red silk of her concert gown whispering softly as she walked, Fabien d'Abrissard appeared to greet her.

“I hope you won't think it too forward of me,” he said, holding out a little box tied with mulberry ribbons. She smiled at him as she opened the box. After so many months playing at being a boy, it was delightful to receive compliments and little gifts again.

“An orchid? Why thank you, Ambassador,” she said, clasping the delicate bloom to her heart. “It's a perfect complement to the shade of my gown.” And the crimson-spotted orchid would also help to disguise the fact that, even artfully arranged, her hair was still un-fashionably short for a woman of society.

“You realize, don't you, that the Emperor is going to attend? He claims he has no ear for music, but he's indulging the wishes of his new bride.”

“The Emperor himself?” Jagu appeared, stuffing the music into his leather case. “We've never performed before an emperor before.”

“So make no mistakes, then, Jagu,” said Celestine mischievously, “or we could cause an international incident.”

The Emperor was waiting for the Empress to finish her toilette, reading through for the second time that day the latest dispatches from Smarna. The situation in the capital, Colchise, was becoming more tense by the day, with the students holding rallies to protest against
the New Rossiyan regime. How was he expected to sit calmly through a musical recital when matters were unraveling so swiftly?

He was so on edge that when Gustave appeared, he started up, expecting the worst. But Gustave merely bowed and presented a sheet covered in an eccentrically looping hand.

“A letter from the Duchess of Rosenholm, highness.”

“What does Aunt Greta want now?” Eugene said, sinking back on his chair.

“The duchess writes on behalf of her neighbor, Oskar Alvborg, recently invalided out of the army, asking your imperial highness to reinstate him.”

“Count Alvborg?” Eugene frowned at the mere mention of the name. “The arrogance of the man, taking advantage of my aunt's sympathetic nature! He disobeyed my orders in action—and, as a result, the Drakhaoul destroyed his regiment. He's fortunate that I didn't have him executed on the battlefield for insubordination. Send the standard reply, Gustave. And, of course, my respects and good wishes to the duchess…” Gustave bowed again and was about to withdraw when Eugene suddenly said, “I want you to inform me the instant you hear any news from Smarna, Gustave. Understood?”

Gustave nodded and Eugene turned back to the dispatches.

“Are you ready to attend the recital, Eugene?” Astasia emerged from her dressing room, and Eugene could not help but gaze at her, distracted from his official papers by her pale beauty. She had chosen a simple gown of cream satin that complemented her dark hair; and, charming touch, he noted, she was wearing the amethysts he had given her as an engagement gift.

“You look… radiant,” he said, wishing, as he stumbled over the words, that he could express himself better when it came to matters of the heart.

“You don't think this gown is too outmoded?” she said anxiously. “Demoiselle de Joyeuse has come from Lutèce, and the ladies of Lutèce are always so stylishly dressed.”

“I think they will look to you to set the style.” He could not help himself and reached out to take her in his arms. To his sadness, he sensed her flinch as his burned face drew near to hers—then make an effort to control herself to accept his kiss.

“We should go,” she whispered, unable to meet his gaze. “It's time for the recital to start.”

* * * 

The music room in the Winter Palace had recently been redecorated with Tielen restraint in muted shades of ivory and duck-egg blue. Porcelain bowls, overflowing with cream lilies and double peonies, had been placed on every little table and pillar, perfuming the air.

Celestine felt unaccountably nervous as they waited for the imperial couple to make their entrance. She had not sung in public for many months and, in spite of a program of intensive vocal exercises, felt unready for such a prestigious engagement.

“His imperial highness, Eugene of New Rossiya,” announced the majordomo as the double doors opened, “and his consort, Astasia.”

As she rose from her curtsy, Celestine could not help but steal a look at the Emperor, who had seated himself beside his young wife. Although she had heard of his disfiguring injuries, she was shocked to see how one whole side of his face and neck was seared and red, making the blue of his eyes all the more piercing by contrast.

What a fearsome creature the Drakhaoul must be, to have inflicted such terrible burns…

She pushed the intrusive thoughts to the back of her mind, smiled at the attentive audience, then turned to nod at Jagu.

Celestine de Joyeuse is so much younger than I had imagined from her illustrious reputation,
thought Astasia.
And how elegant she looks in that gown of mulberry silk, with just a single orchid pinned in her golden hair; quite the epitome of fashionable Francian elegance. I must get my dressmaker to make me a gown in the same style.

The singer's pure, delicate voice soared higher, each little cascade of notes like clear water falling, or a lone thrush fluting in the still, close air before rain.

The song came to an end, and for a moment the last perfect pitch hung in the air. Then the applause began. Astasia clapped and clapped, unable to restrain her enthusiasm. Celestine sank into a deep curtsy, one hand clasped to her breast, murmuring her thanks before rising and gesturing to her accompanist.

The fortepiano player rose, unsmiling, and bowed. A tall, gaunt young man with pale skin and long, straight dark hair, he had more the air of an ascetic or a monk than a musician. She thought she caught a secret, subtle little glance that passed between singer and accompanist
.
Can they be lovers?
Astasia wondered, thrilling to the idea.

“And now, we would like to perform for you one of Henri de Joyeuse's last compositions,” Celestine announced in the Muscobite tongue. “The song ‘October Seas,’ set to the words of your celebrated poet, Solovei.”

More applause greeted this tribute to Mirom's favorite author. But to Celestine's distress, the instant she heard Jagu playing the familiar introduction, the subtle and sad surge and fall of notes, brought unbidden tears to her eyes.
Why now?
She swallowed hard, trying to loosen the constriction in her throat.
What a foolish time to let Henri's music affect me so badly. I can't sing like this!

She dug her nails into her palms, willing the emotion away.
I'm a professional. I owe it to Henri to bring his music to a greater public and keep his music alive. Every time I sing one of his songs, I feel his presence in every nuance, every phrase. If only I still didn't miss him so…