The Mystic Marriage (16 page)

As Jeanne watched the currents of people flow through the ballroom, she contemplated what place she could make for herself in this new round of the game. The politics were beyond her reach and outside her concern. It was clear the Austrian ambassador had instructions to make sure of Efriturik’s interest for the hope of future influence. That was only to be expected. Efriturik himself was harder to read. Jeanne’s thoughts turned to what pleasures he might be enticed by that her friends were able to provide. Drunken revelry and loose women were out of the question but sport…

Recalling the soft fall of snow on the brief ride earlier, a vision came to her. A skating party. Scope for young men to exert themselves and display their skills. An opportunity for them to guide the young women in more sedate exercise. The same informality as a hunting party without the need for travel. But where to hold it? One couldn’t depend on the Rotein freezing hard enough; that had only happened five times in her memory. But a shallow pond on one of the properties at the northern edge of the city? They were sure to freeze by sometime in January. Now who might benefit from the suggestion?

Jeanne cast her eyes over the assembled company and made her way over to a woman standing slightly apart for the moment. “Maisetra Saltez! How is dear Chazerin doing? I haven’t managed to spot her yet.”

“Vicomtesse,” she murmured. “Very well, thank you. There she is, in the pale gold.”

Jeanne followed her gaze and said all that was proper. The girl was only in her first dancing season, so her parents might host ordinary parties but not yet a formal ball. And she was scarcely a contender for Efriturik’s attention. Jeanne knew better than to dabble in serious matchmaking. But she could peddle dreams and fancies. “What a pity you haven’t managed to lure the young Atilliet to any entertainments yet. Wasn’t your son one of his guests at Feniz?”

“Oh yes, but only through young Peskil. It won’t be enough of a connection to allow an invitation after the New Year’s court.” She lowered her voice in the way one did when sharing a secret that everyone knew. “They say Her Grace will be granting him a title at last. He’ll be above our touch then.”

It was just that complication of the social rules that Jeanne was depending on. “But what if you invited him now? Before the court?”

“Don’t be absurd!” Maisetra Saltez laughed. “There’s no room to squeeze in so much as a luncheon before then, and we could hardly ask him too particularly. It would need to be a sizable affair.”

“I had in mind a skating party. To be held whenever your little lake freezes. But that’s the beauty of it, you see. Because of the uncertainty, you send the invitations now. The season is always a little slow late in January.”

She saw her eyes light up. “What a clever idea!”

“And you could set up a pavilion for the refreshments with little braziers for keeping warm.” Jeanne smiled as Saltez nodded eagerly. It seemed she hadn’t lost her touch after all. “Let me know if you need any advice on the planning, though I’m sure you’ll have it all in hand.”

With a flourish of her fan and a nod she moved on. Now who else might benefit from a word and a little push? She felt a twinge of guilt at spending her talents in frivolity when she could think of no way to apply that influence to help Antuniet. But the world turned and one must turn with it.

She spotted Margerit Sovitre lingering at the edge of the ballroom floor watching the dancers with a wistful look, and followed her gaze to see Barbara leading a set with one of the Pelniks. She drifted over as if by chance and whispered, “Someday we should hold a private little ball where we can all dance together without comment.” She saw Margerit blush as intended but the idea unexpectedly took hold in her mind. “We should! What are your plans for floodtide?”

“I…I couldn’t say,” Margerit answered. “We rarely go far because of the university, but I’m not planning to follow lectures in the Easter term. We were thinking of spending it in Chalanz this time.”

“But that would be perfect!” Jeanne urged. “It would be lovely to take a company there. It’s been ages since I saw it. Only give that dragon of yours a holiday. I doubt she’d approve.”

“Dragon? Oh, you mean my Aunt Bertrut. No, I suppose she wouldn’t be comfortable with the house overrun by your set. But they always spend floodtide with the Pertineks, so you needn’t worry.”

Jeanne noted that the plan had shifted from
I couldn’t say
to
You needn’t worry
. That was enough for now. She would have moved on, but one of the foreign guests was approaching with the look of someone desiring an introduction. She wracked her memory. His narrow, fox-like face looked slightly familiar but the name failed her. Margerit seemed to recognize him, though the look that crossed her face wasn’t entirely welcoming.

He bowed slightly to Margerit, murmuring, “Maisetra Sovitre!” and briefly taking her fingertips in salute.

With an almost apologetic glance, Margerit turned to her, saying, “Jeanne, have you met Mesner Kreiser? He’s some sort of aide to the Austrian ambassador, I think. Mesner Kreiser, Jeanne, Vicomtesse de Cherdillac.”

He bowed again. “An imperial emissary, more precisely. I’ve been hoping to meet you.”

Jeanne hid her surprise by exaggerating it. “Me? Oh la! I can’t imagine what interest you would have. My only claim to fame is the success of my little parties, and it’s clear you need no help on that score.” She gestured around at the company with her fan.

His expression reminded her of a skilled card player considering which suit to lead. “My interest is in one of your friends. I understand you’ve been making regular visits to that unfortunate Chazillen woman.”

Jeanne would have been put on guard even without the frantic look Margerit gave her from out of his line of sight. Was this the man Antuniet feared? “Good heavens, have our stale scandals risen to the level of diplomatic attention?”

He made a dismissive gesture. “It’s a minor matter. We have no interest in whatever it was that drove her out of Alpennia, only what she may have brought back with her. You will forgive me if she is, indeed, a friend of yours, but we believe her to have taken something the emperor considers to be his.”

Then she
is
being shadowed, Jeanne thought. She allowed only a patient curiosity to show and made no response.

“I don’t suppose she’s given you something to hold for her. A book, perhaps?”

Jeanne saw Margerit’s face turn pale and snapped her fan open to keep the man’s eyes on herself. Feed him a crumb to distract him, she thought. “A book? Mercy no, only some jewel—jewelry. The merest trinkets, really, hardly worth melting down for the value.” The gems themselves might be too close to his interest. She frantically invented a plausible trail to throw him off. “I suppose her good pieces were all sold long ago, but she asked me to see if I could find a buyer for these. It’s a sad thing when a woman is reduced to selling her last brooch and ring.” She was suddenly aware of the band with the carnelian displayed on her finger. Would he recognize it as one of Antuniet’s creations? Too late to conceal it now without drawing more attention. “If I’d known how many visits it would take to settle the matter I would have refused. My maid quakes in her shoes every time we go down there. She thinks alchemy is only a step from summoning demons! But Maisetra Chazillen asked and I agreed out of pity and so I must see it through.” She was too accustomed to social lies to feel more than a twinge of guilt. And the guilt was for maligning the friendship, not for the falsehood.

Margerit had yet to compose herself fully. Really, she must learn a little acting! Jeanne reached her hand out to Kreiser and said, “If you want to know all the Rotenek gossip, I demand a dance in exchange. Will you oblige me?”

There was nothing he could do except smile and accept.

Chapter Twelve

Barbara

The stone bench down at the bottom of the garden by the small private dock had long been Barbara’s favorite spot to contemplate problems. But on a day like this, sharp and cold with the clouds alternately threatening snow or rain, she settled instead for staring down at the scene from the shelter of the back parlor. The library would have been too comfortable for the topic that gnawed at her and she hated to disturb Margerit’s work with her pacing. Her steps tapped on the polished floor as she turned on her heel once again. It was one thing, Barbara thought, to see a runaway horse galloping down a crowded street and another thing entirely to be in the right place with the strength and skill to stop it.

So Antuniet’s book belonged to Emperor Franz. Or at least he claimed it did. Or at least
Kreiser
claimed it did. Was Kreiser’s position at Annek’s court entirely a blind to pursue the book? Had he learned of it only after being posted in Rotenek? Or was something more complicated than that in play? If it were truly a simple question of theft, the matter would have been settled long ago. At least it explained whose men had been playing cat and mouse with her own hired shadows in the streets around Antuniet’s workshop. But why hadn’t Kreiser simply demanded that Annek take action to retrieve his master’s property? Barbara had seen enough of the book’s contents to guess the answer to that. If it were more than the scribblings of a charlatan, it was a valuable tool indeed, in skilled hands. Too valuable to risk being brought to the attention of a rival. Not that Alpennia was in any way a rival to Austria, but on such small turns of cards lay the fate of empires. Antuniet’s interest could rule out the possibility that the book’s author had been a fraud. So many alchemy texts were nothing but empty boasting and clever allegories, but she was no fool to be taken in.

Antuniet—now there was the problem. The runaway horse was barreling down on her full speed with little room to dodge away. Or—to change images—she thought to draw off the pursuing wolves by throwing the bait in Margerit’s direction. There might be no malice behind it at all, only desperation, but the danger might be just as real if they weren’t careful. Her concern was the danger to Margerit, of course; Antuniet had brought her troubles on herself.

But even if she wanted to move on her cousin’s behalf, what could be done? Very little indeed unless Antuniet wanted her help. And if she wanted it, why hadn’t she asked? The city guard…There was nothing they could do unless Kreiser’s men acted first. The palace had more latitude, but they would do nothing unless it touched directly on the House of Atilliet. It was no small matter to interfere with an embassy.

Yes, what could be done? If it weren’t that Margerit had asked, she’d be content to watch and wait. But Margerit had asked and so at least she would talk to Antuniet. She could take the carriage down to Trez Cherfis and be back long before dinner. It was too cold and wet to make the prospect enticing. A gust whistled past outside and rattled the windows, briefly obscuring her view of the river with a flood of rain against the panes.

The sound muffled a distant pounding on the door. The pounding only impinged on her attention when it was answered with a burst of shouting voices. Old instincts were stronger than new ones and Barbara hitched up her skirts and met the footman running to fetch her before he’d gone three steps.

“What is it?” she barked at the chaos in the entry hall. Ponivin had arrived at the same moment she had, but the butler—exchanging quick glances with her—deferred to her command. Bertrut was near to hysterics in the doorway from the front parlor. The servants were alternating between outrage and terror. The new arrivals were two of her hired shadows, dripping rain all over the carpets and laying down a large burden that looked terrifyingly like a body. “Report!” Barbara barked again, this time directed at them. Behind her, Barbara could hear Margerit gasping in fear.

“They broke into the workshop—staged a carriage accident to cover the noise and came in through the back, I think. We didn’t know until we heard the screaming.”

“Antuniet!” Margerit cried and dodged around Barbara to kneel by the motionless bundle and peel back the cloak wrapped around the bloodied figure. But the face revealed was younger and unfamiliar.

“The apprentice girl,” he continued. “There was also a serving man. He’s dead. We saw no sign of Maisetra Chazillen. Either they carried her off or she wasn’t there.” He looked guiltily at his fellow. “I never saw her leave but there was some time—”

Barbara cut him off and joined Margerit at the girl’s side long enough to determine that the need was for a surgeon, not an undertaker. “Send for Muller. No, not you.” She turned and pointed at the man she most trusted for the job. “You, quick as you can. And Iannik,” she continued, turning to the waiting shadows, “back to your post and find Maisetra Chazillen. Call in anyone else you need. I want her found and I want her safe.”

She turned her attention back to the girl. “Any bones broken?” she asked to the air, then shrugged. “Well, we can’t do any more damage getting her someplace warm than has already been done.” She stepped back and let Ponivin direct several of the footmen to lift her gently, using the cloak as a litter, and carry her into the back parlor that had been filled with contemplation only moments before.

* * *

For an hour, the household was a stirred-up anthill.
Was it like this the time I was attacked?
Barbara wondered. It had been pouring rain that night too when she was ambushed in pursuit of her father’s debts—not her true father, but the man she had then believed to have sired her. She remembered far more of the sword fight on the bridge than its aftermath. Now only the scar remained. She rubbed her fingers absently over the mark on her forehead, just hidden under her hair. She had been a less cooperative patient than Antuniet’s apprentice was.

Anna—it was a good sign that, when she roused briefly, she had been able to tell them her name—lay quietly under Muller’s no-nonsense ministrations. He’d been an army surgeon in the French wars and had an excellent reputation among the armins, but he made no allowances for a young girl’s delicacy and modesty. There were bruises and possibly a cracked skull, though he thought it unlikely. Worst of all, a long deep cut, deliberately sliced across one cheek. In her lucid moments, her first words had been, “I didn’t tell them, Maisetra. I didn’t tell them anything.” Barbara tamped down her rage at hearing that. Someone would pay.