Flight Into Darkness (32 page)

“You want to send the Drakhaouls back to the shadows as much as I do, don't you?”

Ruaud looked into the king's radiant eyes. “You are very precious to me, sire—and to the people of Francia…” Enguerrand's expression undid him. Faced with that look of unquestioning conviction, he knew that there was nothing he could say to dissuade the king from confronting the Drakhaon.

Captain Friard knocked on the door of the Grand Maistre's study and waited for a reply.

“Come in.” The Maistre's face looked drawn as if he hadn't slept, Friard noted, the fine skin beneath his eyes smudged grey. Perhaps the long journey back from Smarna in the summer's heat had worn him out.

“The king,” said Ruaud, “tells me that he has been visited by an angel. A guardian angel who has told him he has been chosen to be Sergius's successor. Of course, this is wonderful news. But I…”

“Maistre?”

“Why am I having these doubts, Alain?” Ruaud raised his head to gaze at him with haggard eyes. “I've been Enguerrand's mentor and confessor since he was a boy. I, of all people, should be honored that my pupil has been chosen. But…” Again he left his thought unfinished and Friard, saddened to see him so conflicted, did not know how to reply. “I want you to do some research for me.”

“Of course.” Friard was glad to do anything if it would help ease the Maistre's troubled state of mind.

“It's a name. It may be Ancient Enhirran in origin, so I'll write it in Francian and Enhirran script.” Ruaud dipped his pen in the shell-shaped inkwell on the desk and put down the two versions of the name.

“Ni—lai—hah.” Friard spelled out the syllables.

“Don't say it aloud.”

“Is this the name of… ?”

“The king's guardian angel. Only it's not a name that I remember encountering in my studies with Père Judicael. Of course, there are an infinite number of guardians in the hosts of heaven, so it's more than likely that my doubts are completely unjustified. But bring me every scrap of information you can find, no matter how insignificant …”

Alain Friard rubbed his aching eyes, leaned back on the wooden bench, and stretched. He had been researching for several days and he had moved from the vast, echoing hall of the Commanderie Library to an obscure and little-known collection hidden away in the vaults. Père Judicael had brought him here to examine an ancient text that had been brought out of Djihan-Djihar in the previous century. The book had been rescued from a burning library, and the old vellum was blackened by fire, with some of the text burned away. Scholars had argued for years over the authenticity of
The Warriors of Heaven,
whose anonymous author claimed to have recorded every known angelic appearance. There were even exquisite little illuminations in the margins. But
The Warriors of Heaven
was kept locked away, and only a few select members of the Commanderie were allowed access, for fear that unscrupulous scholars might use the information to initiate forbidden cabalistic rites.

Once Friard had reminded himself how to decipher the intricate Djihari script (which read from right to left), he began the laborious search for the name the Maistre had given him.

And at last he thought he had found the king's angel: the poet Nilaihah. “Nilaihah,” translated Friard, “has influence over wise men who love peace and wisdom.”

But this was only one reference and the Maistre had asked him to bring “every scrap of information, no matter how insignificant.” And one fact had been bothering Friard: Someone had scrawled an unfamiliar sigil in crimson ink beside the angel's name. He turned the fragile vellum over and scanned the next page and the next, searching for another occurrence. Frustrated, he went in search of Père Judicael, who stared at the sigil first through his spectacles then, raising them, peered so closely that the tip of his nose touched the page.

“Leave this with me,” he said. “I'm certain I've encountered that sigil before; but it's an ancient and obscure script, an Enhirran variant maybe, on the Djihari alphabet…”

“‘A poet-angel,’” Friard transcribed the translation for Ruaud, “‘who has influence over wise men…’”

CHAPTER 19

The roar of an angry crowd penetrated the thick walls of the old citadel.

“You sent for me, Inquisitor?” Jagu saluted. The officer of the Inquisition who had summoned him was Prosper Eguiner, the man who had authorized the arrest and trial of Professor Lukan. Now that the guilty verdict had been announced, Colchise was in an uproar and the students were massing outside the citadel.

“I need every Guerrier I've got right here at the citadel. All leave is canceled.” Eguiner had to raise his voice to make himself heard above the shouting of the protestors. A redhead, he was evidently finding the late afternoon's heat difficult to tolerate, and Jagu could see a film of sweat on his freckled face.

“I have a rehearsal for the recital at the ambassador's.”

“That'll have to wait, Lieutenant. I need every able-bodied Guerrier in Colchise here to guard the prisoner. Have you heard that crowd? They stormed the citadel when the Tielens were here. I wouldn't put it past them to attack again.”

“Was it really necessary to arrest Professor Lukan?”

“Rafael Lukan is a dangerous and heretical freethinker.” Eguiner took out a spotless linen handkerchief and dabbed at his gleaming face. “An undesirable influence on impressionable young minds.”

“But look at the trouble it's caused.” Eguiner might be Visant's second-in-command, but Jagu was not intimidated by him.

“Frankly, I'm surprised to hear you talk that way, Lieutenant,”
Eguiner said, tucking away the handkerchief. “The man's a dangerous influence! We have to make an example of him.”

Jagu suppressed a sigh of irritation. He had no great sympathy for the Inquisition. Their officers had never seen action in Enhirre, spending their time ferreting out evidence against unbelievers and heretics. Faced with an armed revolt, he feared that they might not have enough experience to be able to defend the citadel successfully.

“What are my orders?”

“I want you to organize the Guerriers to defend the citadel against any possible attack from the populace. The execution is to take place at midday tomorrow. I don't want anything to go wrong, do you understand me?”

“I understand. Do you have a map of the citadel?” Jagu asked. “And how many men are stationed here?”

“A detachment of fifty.”

Not that many, but maybe enough, if I position them at key places along the walls…

As the shouting of the students settled into a regular pattern, Jagu began to distinguish words. “Free Lukan! Free Lukan!”

“Inquisitor, the First Minister of Smarna is here to see you,” announced Eguiner's secretary.

“Tell her I'm busy.”

“She's most insistent…”

Eguiner slammed the dossier shut and followed his secretary out of the room. Jagu examined the map of the citadel spread out on the desk in front of him, taking note of all the breaches in the walls left unrepaired since the last revolt against the Tielens, only a few months ago.

My mission was to work with Celestine to discover more about the Drakhaon's whereabouts. It involved infiltrating Smarnan society, playing music, and listening to the gossip of the intellectuals and the artists… And now, thanks to the Inquisition, the whole country's in an uproar, and I have to leave Celestine to work on her own.

The rhythm of the chanting changed. Now Jagu was certain that he could hear, “Death to the Francian Inquisition!”

I should go back to check that Celestine is safe. Instead of which, I'm going to have to drill these Inquisition Guerriers on how to defend themselves.

An hour or so later, Jagu found himself instructing Eguiner's officers, pointing out the places on the map where the citadel was most
vulnerable to attack. Then the shouting outside suddenly died away. All the Guerriers looked up.

“The calm before the storm?” said one, laughing nervously.

“Perhaps they've given up?” suggested another.

“I doubt it,” said Jagu dryly. Though, the more he thought about the Inquisition's methods, the more he disliked what he had been ordered to do. Heretical as Rafael Lukan's ideas might be, execution seemed too harsh a punishment. A rumor was circulating in the citadel that the First Minister was appealing directly to King Enguerrand to intervene.

Eguiner's men had been up all night building a scaffold in the square outside the citadel. Jagu had placed armed Guerriers around the square, warning them to be ready to fire at the first sign of trouble.

Eleven was striking from the cathedral clock as he returned to the citadel. One hour to go to the execution, and the rebel students had still not made their move.

A woman screamed. Jagu seized his pistol and checked that it was primed.

“To your positions!” he ordered the Guerriers waiting inside. As he ran to guard the doorway, he heard the sound of musket shots. “So soon?” he muttered. In the square, people were running about in confusion. The sky darkened and, glancing up, he saw daemon-blue eyes staring down at him from the smoky glitter of a great hook-winged shadow-dragon. His Guerriers fired at it but their musket balls bounced off its armored scales like hailstones.

“The Drakhaon,” he muttered. “I should have guessed…”

Two people were coming swiftly toward him; a fair-haired young man and a bespectacled youth clutching a document case. Jagu, sensing trouble, barred their way.

“Take us to Rafael Lukan,” said the man. “I have a pass signed by the First Minister.”

“No one is allowed in to see the condemned man.”

“But I'm his son,” piped up the youth.

Could this be the truth? “I have no record of any wife or son here. Wait here, please.” Jagu was forced to scan the record book.

“His illegitimate son,” added the youth.

There came a sudden uproar as hundreds of students poured into the square and rushed the Guerriers. And the Guerriers, caught reloading their muskets, were not ready for them.

“Damn!” Jagu cried and in that one moment's distraction, turned
away. The blow caught him on the back of the head; there was a flash of blinding, skull-splitting pain—and then, nothing.

“Lieutenant.
Lieutenant!”

Jagu opened his eyes to see a Guerrier bending over him. He felt sick. And when he tried to sit up, he felt a violent pounding in his head.

“The prisoner—”

“He got away.”

“Damn.” Jagu closed his eyes. Fragments of memory began to return. “That youth. The old distraction trick. Keep the target occupied while your accomplice slips round the back and—bang! Why did I fall for it?” He groaned. “How long have I been unconscious?”

“You've been out most of the day. The surgeon says—”

“Not so loud,” Jagu hissed, closing his eyes again. The sound of the man's voice had set lights dancing luridly before his eyes.

“Sorry, Lieutenant.” The Guerrier spoke more softly.

“The recital!” Jagu suddenly remembered. “I have to go to the ambassador's villa—”

“The surgeon says you're to rest until he's checked you again. You took quite a blow there.”

Jagu felt so queasy that he did not argue and lay back, letting the Guerrier apply a cold compress.

“‘In the light of recent unfortunate events in the citadel,’” read Celestine,

I feel it is inadvisable to proceed with your recital. I hope you will understand, Demoiselle. It is with regret that I have decided to postpone the concert until the situation has stabilized.

Yakov Garsevani, Ambassador

“Unfortunate events?” she said aloud, unable to conceal her annoyance. “Why didn't the Inquisition take Rafael Lukan to stand trial in Francia? Then they could have lured the Drakhaon there and entrapped him, using the information I charmed from his mother, far from his home. But no, the Inquisition knows best, and all my hard work is for nothing!”

Nanette appeared. “There are two Guerriers here to see you, Demoiselle,” she said as two men appeared in the doorway behind her.

“We have urgent instructions from Maistre de Lanvaux,” said the taller of the two.

“From the Maistre?” she asked, stalling for time; neither man's face was familiar.

“You are to return to Lutèce with us straightaway.” Both wore the discreet emerald insignia on their black uniform jackets that marked them as belonging to the inquisitorial division. Visant's men.

“But I need time to pack—”

“We have orders to take charge of all your luggage.”

“Let me at least send word to Lieutenant de Rustéphan.”

“We must leave straightaway,” repeated the first officer. There was an inflexible tone to his voice that warned her that she had been found out. But who had betrayed her?

“It was an old book…” Nanette's voice drifted out from her bedchamber as they led Celestine across the hall, “… and then the portraitist said she felt unwell…”

They were going through her possessions. If she called on the Faie to help her, she would only give her secret away. She would have to bide her time.

As they escorted her into their carriage, she saw other Guerriers entering the villa. She had concealed the grimoire inside a collection of
chansons,
but the Inquisitors were trained to ferret out all manner of hidden secrets.