The Mystic Marriage (58 page)

“Perhaps,” Annek agreed. But Antuniet felt the weight of her measuring gaze until at last she signaled to her retinue and they wheeled and left like a flock of pigeons.

“We’ll need to find another assistant or two,” Antuniet told Anna after the princess had left. Margerit had been a rock of support but she had her own studies to take up again. And Jeanne—no doubt Jeanne would come any time she asked, but the workshop no longer need be their meeting place. Better to leave Jeanne free for her own pursuits. And there was no need to lean on those few ties now. A royal alchemist would find it far easier to hire assistants and even to find new apprentices than a penniless exile could have hoped for. And with Annek’s open patronage, there was no fear that her studies would be taken for anything darker.

* * *

With the press of the work drawn back and the seal of royal approval, Antuniet found her evenings more and more turned outward. If the rumor of scandal had reduced the claims on Jeanne’s time from the more staid of the matrons, it caused no diminution in invitations from old friends. And there were still those who could forgive much for a chance at the ties Jeanne could provide. “Any tool for the job,” Jeanne said cheerfully when Antuniet questioned her about an invitation from the Marzulins. “I scarcely knew who they were either, but they fit my requirements. It wouldn’t do to try to launch Chanturi’s violinist at the
Salle-Chapil
under someone like the Penilluks or the Aruliks. No one would pay much attention to the music; it would just be another party. I need a hostess who would be too flattered by the offer to question the choice.”

“Flattered indeed.” Antuniet cast her eyes over the ornate invitation. “I don’t know whether to be grateful or insulted that she’s invited me.”

“Be flattered for yourself,” Jeanne said. “For I never even mentioned your name. It was Maisetra Marzulin who asked if she might aspire to the company of Princess Annek’s alchemist on the thread of our friendship. I’ve shamelessly allowed her to use my name in the invitations. Tio has promised to come as well.”

That might have set her mind against going if it hadn’t meant so much to Jeanne. The concert was to be a small affair, no more than fifty guests, perhaps. The sponsor Jeanne had chosen to approach was a man of middle years who had made his fortune in canal-building and was now setting about the business of seeing that his children would climb a few steps higher in Rotenek society than he had. Of course, it had been his wife whom Jeanne had approached, and she had taken some coaxing, for she was badly daunted by the list of names that were proposed. Antuniet had listened to Jeanne’s tales of the struggle day by day over breakfast.

“I don’t know why she thought they were buying that enormous house out past the north gate if it were only to entertain shopkeepers,” Jeanne had complained. “Though I suppose Maistir Marzulin bought it just to show he could. But their place is exactly the size for what I have in mind. Something intimate to set Iustin off at the start. Rumor will whet the appetite. Soon people will be clamoring to hear her play simply to hold it over their friends who haven’t.”

Antuniet looked around as they entered the half-filled room. Not so large as the ballroom at Margerit’s place in Chalanz, but enough that Rotenek standards would consider it vulgar for a townhouse. Much of the crowd might be thought vulgar as well, but that was all part of Jeanne’s plan. Her complex logic had reminded Antuniet why she’d hated her mother’s attempts to teach her how to plan entertainments. Baits and lures, flattery and envy, pride and curiosity. But this was Jeanne’s artistry: to bring people together for a purpose beyond them all and convince each one he had the best of it.

The
burfroi
crowd had been carefully seeded with more elevated guests—ones with enough reason for their presence to be unremarkable, and lending enough cachet to cast a mantle of success over it all. There was Count Chanturi, of course, over by the pianoforte, speaking with his protégée and with Ion-Pazit, the composer who would accompany her himself. And Chanturi had drawn in Felzin and one of the Salun brothers. Emill Chaluk was well known as a great admirer of Ion-Pazit’s work, and with her one could include her two nephews without seeming too forward. Chaluk was holding forth to them on the intricacies of the composer’s rhythms, to the rapt entertainment of a small crowd. And as promised, Jeanne had delivered the younger set as well. Tio, Elin and Iaklin had accepted, which Maisetra Marzulin had unaccountably considered a great coup, giving rise to outrageous rumors that Princess Elisebet herself might make an unheralded appearance. The rest were nobody Antuniet expected to know.

When the music finally began, Antuniet could see why Jeanne had chosen such a setting. Ion-Pazit’s work was…daring might be the kindest word. A traditionalist might say he broke rules, but it was clear that he merely considered rules to be beneath him. Jeanne whispered that he’d agreed to let the Mazzies girl perform this work only because the other violinists capable of the part refused to touch it, and those who were willing to put up with his temper he considered to be idiots.

Iustin Mazzies addressed the piece with the focus and tenacity of a striking hawk, though there were parts where Antuniet thought the better image might be a terrier on a rat. The two seemed not so much to be playing in concert as to be locked in combat over the soul of the music. The least one might say was that the unrelenting intensity of the piece left no one unmoved.

With the final chord, there was a moment of stunned silence, as if the audience were uncertain what it had heard. A few quick glances passed among the crowd, gauging whether they were meant to approve of it. Then a sprinkling of applause began, gaining ground as the uncertain ones feared to be left behind. That was Jeanne’s genius as well. A more sophisticated crowd might be less willing to be led against their own taste. Antuniet hadn’t cared much for the music, but the artistry—of all types—that she could admire.

There was still the reception to be endured afterward, with Antuniet keeping close to Jeanne’s side to avoid being drawn into other conversations. And that meant attending on their hostess as she accepted the congratulations of the guests. Tio and her set seemed determined to make their curtsey and leave early.

“It was so kind of you to come,” Maisetra Marzulin repeated to each. “I hope you enjoyed the concert. We had hoped perhaps you might be joined…” Her voice trailed off. The rumored hope of Elisebet’s presence was too presumptuous to voice.

Elin began, “It wasn’t possible. Not under the circumstances—”

Tio hushed her but added more pleasantly, “I wouldn’t have missed the concert. Jeanne has quite an eye for talented young women.”

When Maisetra Marzulin laughed politely and moved on, Jeanne lowered her voice to ask, “What was that about? No, not your comment. The other matter.”

Tio glanced back at her companions. Her voice, too, came in a whisper. “It’s Chustin. Princess Elisebet is in quite a state from worry over him.” Antuniet felt Tio’s glare as she added, “And don’t tell me she’s making too much of sniffles. The boy’s ill. Has been since Christmas. He sleeps sixteen hours in the day and suffers from evil dreams. She’s had four or five doctors to see him and taken him to her favorite thaumaturgist as well but they only shake their heads.”

Well, perhaps there was something in it this time. Certainly Tio wasn’t feigning concern and she didn’t seem given to mad fancies. The news sobered the remainder of their evening. Yet, all in all, the affair seemed a success. And by the time they reached home, Jeanne was planning the next setting for Iustin’s conquest of Rotenek’s concert halls.

Chapter Thirty-Four

Margerit

“Have you ever considered adding music to your mysteries?” Serafina asked.

The thin winter sun had faded enough that Margerit had risen to light the lamps and ring for someone to tend to the fire. She paused for a moment to wonder why it seemed such an outlandish idea. “We never have. It isn’t traditional in Alpennian ceremonies.” Saying that, she realized how thin an excuse it seemed.

Barbara seemed less taken aback. “I saw one once in Genoa that included hymns, but of course I have no idea whether they added to the effectiveness.”

“I’ve always wondered about that,” Serafina continued. “In Rome there’s such a separation between mysteries and the sacraments proper. Music belongs to the Mass, for the most part. But I experienced a mystery with music once in Palermo that—” Her eyes went misty for a moment and she hugged herself tightly. “I can’t explain. I would give anything to feel that again.”

It was the long, quiet season between the New Year and the beginning of the Lenten term. Margerit had plunged into working through the Mauriz notes alongside Serafina—not student, but not quite teacher. More a renewal of those exciting days during her early studies when she and Barbara would explore the whole universe of philosophy and argue out from first principles to last conclusions together. Barbara had taken up the return to their close studies enthusiastically.

“Perhaps,” Margerit said slowly, “the difference is in how rare
auditors
are in comparison with
vidators
.”

Serafina shook her head. “You forget how rare it is to sense the
fluctus
reliably at all. Don’t argue from your own case. If we were discussing market-charms I might agree. But the formal mysteries have either been set for centuries or are built up out of parts of those, like what you described of your new Mauriz. I could accept that a new mystery like that one might exclude hymns and music because its sources did, but not that it was a deliberate and considered omission. If words are the building blocks of powerful mysteries, why shouldn’t music—which stirs our hearts so strongly—add its part? You said yourself that you sometimes see the
fluctus
as currents of music.”

“Have you ever seen it happen?” Margerit asked.

“Only that once. I see things—wondrous things, and I feel…” She laughed. “I haven’t the words. That’s why I came to you! I know something is happening, but I don’t know what or why—or how to bring it about.”

A knock on the door interrupted them. “That will be someone to build up the fire,” Margerit said, and called out an invitation.

Instead of the expected maid, Brandel poked his head in. “Pardon me, Cousin Barbara, Maisetras, but there’s an urgent message come from the palace. I told him I’d fetch you.” Barbara began to rise but he said, “No, it’s for Maisetra Sovitre. I think she’s asked to come. The man is waiting.”

It wasn’t unusual for Annek to send for her unexpectedly, but never with such urgency. The only project she was working on at the moment was a review of the Royal Guild’s Easter mysteries, and surely there was no rush to finish that.

Afternoon had faded to dusk by the time the carriage turned through the gates of the palace grounds, crunching on the crusted snow piled in the shadow of the walls. And after that, there was an hour to wait in the chilly gallery. At last she was escorted in to find the office deserted except for the woman behind the writing table.

Princess Annek looked far more worried than Margerit had seen her before and barely acknowledged her salutation except to say, “I thank you for coming so quickly.” She gestured to a chair opposite her. After Margerit obeyed, there was a long silence, as if the princess weren’t certain how to begin. “Do you have any experience with
mysteria veridica
? With truth mysteries?” Annek asked at last.

“No,” Margerit said in surprise. “Not really; I’ve never studied them. I thought…that is, I know they’re used in the courts on occasion. Barbara told me something about that—that they weren’t part of Lord Chormuin’s bill. But I thought they were rare.”

“Yes, like any of the lesser mysteries, there’s the problem of finding a reliable practitioner. The magistrates sometimes call in a priest to administer them, whether they have any skill or not. They’re more use in frightening people into confessing than to distinguish between truth and lies. I may have need of a means to distinguish just that. Or to prove the innocence of someone wrongly accused. Do you think you could devise a truth mystery that would make the judgment evident to all?”

“I don’t know, Your Grace. I don’t think it’s possible, unless…” She considered carefully. “I would need to study the existing forms. Isn’t the judgment usually returned in a vision? That makes it difficult. But it might be possible to tie it to a tangible sign.” She thought back to that first time she had been so blessed, when the cherries bloomed for her on Saint Chertrut’s day. “Yes, a physical sign so all can see the result. When would you need me to be ready?”

“That is uncertain,” Annek said. “Perhaps it won’t be necessary at all. Tell me, how well do you know Maisetra Chazillen?”

And what does Antuniet have to do with this?
she wondered. But perhaps there was no connection. “Well enough. We’ve worked side by side for the past year,” she said. “And before that—” She hesitated, but Annek knew the whole story well. “Before that we worked together in the Guild of Saint Atelpirt.”

Princess Annek tapped a finger softly against her lips while she considered. “Do you know any reason why Maisetra Chazillen might have a grudge against my cousin Elisebet or her son?”

“No,” she said quickly. Too quickly, perhaps. “I don’t think that Antuniet cares for politics at all. She had no part in her brother’s plot against you. She never openly supported any side in the succession. I think the only cause she cares for is the Chazillen name.”

“Yes,” Annek said slowly. “And if that were the matter, then why—” She shook her head. “There has been talk. Your friend has opened herself to suspicions and accusations. I do not speak only of the alchemy.”

Now it was “your friend” and not “my alchemist.”
Margerit felt a chill. The indifference of society had its limits. “Your Grace?” she ventured hesitantly. “Might I ask…It would be easier to devise the mystery you want if I knew what sort of truth I’m seeking.”