The Mystic Marriage (48 page)

Excitement leaped in his eyes. Tavit must have been telling tales again. “I’ll be learning dueling from Mefroi Perret?”

She grabbed Brandel by the wrist and pulled him around to face her, halting in midstride. “If I ever hear you’ve been dueling, I’ll pack you off to your father before the next dawn.” She released him and resumed walking, waiting until he had scrambled to come even with her again before saying, “In all my time I’ve only fought one duel, and that was meant as murder, not as a test of honor. No one with any sense is eager for a duel. You will be learning the art of defense, and the sword is only the beginning of it. You should learn to shoot as well. But Perret can’t be expected to waste time on raw beginners like you. If you’re respectful and convince him you’re willing to work hard, he may assign one of his students to teach you.” It wasn’t entirely true. If she requested it, Perret might be willing to provide the occasional lesson, but she didn’t care to spend her credit with him to that end. And she was taking Brandel’s measure: he was willing to go to great lengths for something he’d set his heart on—his presence in Rotenek was proof enough of that—but he might not value what was given freely.

When they had finished at the
salle
, they turned south. The Red Oak tavern had been the first place she’d turned when looking for gossip concerning Aukustin’s tutor Chautovil and for the same reasons it was her first stop again today. It was the chosen haunt of many of the more serious and sober students and there was always news of positions sought and offered. As if the thought had summoned him, when they came through to the quieter inner room to find an empty table, Barbara spotted Chautovil himself, looking more like a student than a respectable tutor, with his carelessly-tied cravat and his over-long hair falling in untidy chaos. The man looked up in startlement from the corner when he saw her.

“Now here’s a lucky chance,” Barbara said as they approached. “You may know—” The second figure behind him came into view, explaining his half-guilty look. Barbara offered a slight curtsey, saying, “Mesner Atilliet, I hope you are enjoying the day. May I take the liberty of introducing my cousin Eskambrend Chamering? He’s newly come to town. Brandel, this is Aukustin Atilliet, Princess Anna’s half-brother. And Maistir Chautovil, his tutor. Might we join you, Maistir Chautovil? You might be able to help with my errand here today.”

They had both risen at the greeting, but Chautovil remained standing, eyeing her uncertainly. “Baroness, might I have a private word with you?”

“Certainly.” And when he looked back at Chustin with a slight frown of concern, she said, “Tavit?” and tilted her head in the boy’s direction. Tavit nodded and shifted to put the table within the ambit of his watch. It was an excess of caution; there was no need for them even to leave the room. The far corner provided seclusion enough.

Chautovil made no preamble. “If you’re one of the shadows Princess Elisebet has set to watch over her son, then you will do as you must. But you would do him a better service if you didn’t mention that you met him here.”

Did Chautovil know that she had once made inquiries about him at Elisebet’s request? She’d been as discreet as she felt the matter warranted, but she’d taken no serious pains to be secret about it. “It’s true there’s been an occasion or two when the princess asked me to have an eye to Chustin’s safety,” she offered. “But I have no warrant to spy on him or report his activities.”

The tutor relaxed visibly. “Forgive me for the question. The boy is so hedged about with restrictions. How can I prepare him for…for the life he may someday lead if he never knows more of Alpennia than the inside of the palace?”

Barbara nodded in sympathy. “It isn’t an easy task you’ve been set.”

They drifted back to join the boys at the table. Chustin was holding forth on the wonders he’d seen and Brandel, she noticed, was polite enough—or new enough to Rotenek himself—not to scoff at the thought that the arches and imposing bulk of the
chasintalle
constituted a wonder.

“I want to see the ships down at the wharves and the Strangers Market where they unload the cargos,” Chustin said excitedly. “My tutor said we might go there next time.” And then he seemed to remember his manners and asked Brandel about his own adventures.

Barbara gave the tavern keeper her requests, then turned back to Chautovil. “I find myself in need of a tutor for my cousin to fill in a few gaps that hadn’t seemed important back in Rapenfil. Who would you recommend? You’re still new enough from your own studies that you must know who’s looking for positions.”

He mentioned a name or three and they fell to quiet discussion of their merits. Brandel had overcome his initial awe to answer Chustin’s questions with the tale of his travels to the city. That tale was met with naked envy, though only Chustin’s sheltered life could make the drover’s wagon into an adventure. The two boys were nearly of an age: both thin and dark, though Chustin was the taller. Watching them, Barbara’s thoughts spun off in odd directions, until Chautovil rose to depart.

When they were left alone at the table, Barbara caught Brandel’s attention and said quietly, “An armin must always know when to be discreet. Mention to no one that you saw Mesner Atilliet today.”

“Why?” he asked guilelessly. “And why did you say he was Princess Anna’s brother when everyone calls him her cousin?”

“That,” she replied, “I set as a lesson for you: to find the answer to those questions without giving away secrets. And you may not simply ask Tavit. And the second test today,” she added, “is to see whether you’ve been paying enough attention to lead us home.” She was gratified to see that he looked daunted but made no protest. He’d soon learn to expect such tests. They were far milder than the ones she’d been set at a far younger age.

He found the way well enough by heading north until they came to the river. Only once did Tavit correct the path and that was for form’s sake. The Summeril district held no hazards to compare with the warehouses along Rens Street and she was no stranger to these narrow alleys, but it was no place for a well-born lady’s afternoon stroll and Tavit took seriously her advice to tailor his watch to her wardrobe.

* * *

The understanding she had found with Antuniet at the beginning of the summer had failed to blossom into anything deeper. The brittle formality was gone, but the distance remained. On Antuniet’s side the only change was a willingness to co-opt her into the alchemical work when an extra body was needed and she could fulfill the role. On her own side…Barbara found she could only describe the change in an armin’s terms: that Antuniet now stood within the circle of her watch. But they had no public friendship, no ties that did not travel through another person. Even their social encounters were largely mediated through Jeanne’s efforts. And yet despite that—because of it—when Margerit brought home the message that Antuniet wished to consult with her, should it be convenient, Barbara cleared the next day of all other commitments.

When Antuniet arrived, Barbara was in the library taking a few moments to quiz Brandel on his studies. Rather than sending him about his business, it seemed right to make introductions. “Antuniet, you haven’t yet met my cousin, Eskambrend Chamering. He’s joined our little household for a time.” At her look of surprise, “My mother’s family. Until this summer I knew nothing about them and now suddenly I have an abundance of cousins. Brandel, this is another cousin of mine, Maisetra Chazillen. Her mother was a Lumbeirt.”

“But Cousin Barbara,” he began, “if she’s your cousin, then why—”

“Brandel!” she cut him off sharply. “Discretion. And…?” Her voice trailed up in expectation.

“…and a test. Yes, Mesnera,” he concluded, finally remembering his public manners. And with a little bow, “It is a pleasure to meet you, Maisetra Chazillen.”

Antuniet watched him leave with an odd look. Envy? “You’re gathering quite the
saliesin
,” she observed, using the old-fashioned term for that extended network of kindred, clients and dependents that still left traces in households like that of the Pertineks. Did Antuniet feel left outside that structure?

Barbara grimaced. “It’s been a bit strange to have a boy in the house. And he has everything to learn. How is the work proceeding?” It was the only topic she could think of that might have brought Antuniet here.

Her face fell a little and she shook her head absently. “I don’t know…I can’t…I don’t think it can be done.”

Barbara raised an eyebrow and waited for explanation.

“It’s the size of the stones,” Antuniet continued. “I can make the ones I need easily enough, but to gather the sets of properties—it’s too large for the setting, even for the larger men’s rings. And I’ve talked it over at length with Monterrez and we can’t think of any other piece that would achieve the necessary contact.”

“Is the size so important?” Barbara asked.

Antuniet stared at her as if she’d said something witless. “Too small and they’re only colored glass. The structure of the crystals magnifies the properties. It’s different for each type of stone, of course, but you never obtain the enhanced properties with anything smaller than a pea. Not unless they’re more flawless than anything I’ve managed so far. A very large stone will work, even with natural flaws. The purity is part of it too. Perhaps a perfect stone could be small enough. Perhaps someday I’ll be able to achieve that degree of perfection. But not in time for the gifts.”

“You could go to Princess Annek,” Barbara said. “Explain the problem. Perhaps the requirements could be changed.”

“No!” Antuniet protested immediately. “This is the task I was set. I can’t fail now.”

“Sometimes life gives us more than one chance,” Barbara suggested gently. “Must you stake it all on this one project?” She could understand, although not share, the fear and panic that washed over Antuniet’s expression.

“I never had a right to hope for even one chance,” she said. “How can I ask for a second?”

“Then we must solve the problem somehow. What are your thoughts?”

Antuniet drew out her notebook and opened it to the page where the recipients’ names were written, followed by the lists of properties that had been requested. “I thought—” she began. “You helped me identify what paths to take for each man. Perhaps we could review them again and reduce the number of the stones. It’s easier to enhance one property at a time, to grant pure virtues. But the natural stones are more mixed, and perhaps that could be used to our advantage. This one, for example.” She traced a finger under the listing for Albori, the foreign minister. “To give him wisdom in making decisions; to make him eloquent and bold in persuading others; but then also to brighten his vision and strengthen his lungs. There’s no overlap I can find for the medical purposes, but with your advice I had fixed on sapphire, carnelian and agate to increase wisdom, confidence and the power to persuade others. If boldness needn’t be strengthened, then perhaps agate alone would work. It grants prudent speech and cautious judgment. The effect wouldn’t be as strong for the size, but if I can reduce three to one, then a larger stone—the central one in the setting—would be possible. If I could bring each design down to three stones, I might succeed. But I need your knowledge of the court again. Where can we skimp? Which effects will work with the natural virtues of the recipients?” She looked up, not so much in hope but as a drowning man might at the distant sight of a ship.

Barbara bit her lip and thought through the problem Antuniet had described. “I see what you’re thinking,” she said. “And for Albori, that could work as you suggest. He has no lack of confidence, only a weak sense of what and when to push. Perhaps…” She leaned over the notebook and ran her eyes down the list. “This one. I think something can be done here as well.” They set to work paring away at the layers of the project to find what might be possible.

At the end, the edge of panic had faded from Antuniet’s manner. As they bade farewells, Barbara impulsively offered, “We haven’t seen you outside the workshop for too long; you look tired. Could you find time on Friday for a dinner? There’s a concert—some French alto and they say Fizeir has done some settings of Pertulif that I’m eager to hear. Are you fond of his verses? We’re having some friends here beforehand.”

Antuniet managed a wry smile. “I’ve refused one offer of dinner for that night already. I have so little time to spend on entertainments at the moment; I think Jeanne would be cross if I squandered it on anyone but her. But I’m hoping to join her for the concert. There’s a late working that day and Anna can’t stay to tend it. But if I can get free in time, I’ll come.”

“Antuniet, don’t—” Barbara hesitated. What did she mean to say?
Don’t pin your hopes of happiness on Jeanne. She’s a butterfly and you’re only this season’s blossom.
But there was no ground between them where that could be spoken. Her cousin had never yet acknowledged aloud that she and Jeanne were more than friends. And the rules must be followed. “Don’t fret about the New Year’s gifts,” she finished after an awkward pause. “We’ll make it work somehow.”

* * *

The concert looked to be a wild success and a dreadful crush. As Margerit went to find their seats, Barbara edged her way through the crowd to where Jeanne held court with her fan fluttering in one hand and a nearly empty glass of champagne in the other. “You look sparkling tonight,” she said. “Did Antuniet come with you?” It would be good to hear how the changes they had discussed were working.

Jeanne’s mouth twisted in a pout. “No. It was maybe yes, maybe no, it depends on how the working goes. But I can’t sit at home waiting in hope that the furnace will cool in time. This is my last chance to hear La Rossignole sing from her
Romeo
before she returns to Paris.” She fluttered her fan coyly. “You know I have such a weakness for the trouser roles.”

It was a disappointment, but not a surprise, and Barbara re-entered the press to join Margerit again. The music was a varied program. Maistir Fizeir had been venturing into the realm of art songs and offered a setting of Pertulif’s most popular poem,
The Song of the Mountain
. Like most of the composer’s work, it was technically precise but unsatisfying to the soul. “Though,” Barbara admitted under her breath to Margerit, “I may be too hard to please when it comes to that text. But how could he assign a verse on the majesty of the mountains to a coloratura?”