The Seat of Magic (35 page)

T
he cab took them down to the Street of Flowers faster than Oriana could walk. When they reached the house, Duilio jogged up the front steps to bang on the door. Cardenas peered out a side window, and then hurried to let them in. Duilio pushed open the door and yelled past the butler down the main hallway. “Mother?”

“Lady Ferreira is in the sitting room,” Cardenas said, “entertaining.”

“I'll go talk to her.” Joaquim said and headed that way.

Duilio set a hand on the butler's arm. “Have we heard anything from Monteiro this afternoon?”

“Not half an hour ago, Mr. Duilio,” Cardenas said. “He's still at Mr. Joaquim's flat.”

Duilio saw Oriana let out a tightly held breath. He'd felt sure that Monteiro was safe, but Serpa needed a throat to transplant into the prince's body, and Monteiro
would
be the first choice for someone as vindictive as Mrs. Melo. Even with Monteiro safe, they still had access to one male sereia: Ambassador Alvaro.

Duilio turned back to Cardenas. “Please have Marcellin bring up my revolvers and my oldest sporting jacket. And ask Mrs. Cardoza if there are any pastries we can carry off with us.”

Cardenas repeated that to himself, lips moving, and went in search of the valet.

“How can you eat?” Oriana asked.

“In this line of work, we see a lot of unsettling things. Plus Joaquim threw up in the hallway back at that house, so he's got to be hungry. I know I am.” She groaned, but walked with him toward the sitting room when he tugged on her arm. “Once we get . . .”

Duilio stopped on the threshold of the sitting room, startled. His mother did have a guest—none other than the infante himself, sitting on the couch like an old family friend. Which in a way, he was.

The infante rose politely when he saw Oriana standing at Duilio's side, but asked, “Where have you been, Duilio?”

Duilio stopped himself before he actually answered that question. He didn't want to blurt out the things they'd seen in front of his mother. “Miss Paredes, Inspector Tavares, and I have learned of a plot to assassinate the prince, Your Highness, and we were even now preparing to go to the palace to pursue those involved.”

The infante's eyes narrowed. “Who are we looking for?”

“Dr. Serpa, Your Highness.”

The infante's brows drew together. “Serpa? I don't like the man, but he's had plenty of opportunity to kill my brother before now.”

Duilio thought he'd figured out the man's reasoning, as strange as it seemed. “Yes, but not in the sensational way they'd planned, Your Highness. He needed Father Salazar to do so.”

“Please don't ask him to explain that,” Joaquim said hurriedly.

The infante glanced at Joaquim, and said, “Perhaps we could discuss this elsewhere?”

“Yes, Your Highness. Why don't we retire to the library? Mother, if you can tell Cardenas we've gone there.”

“I'd be happy to.” She rose. “It's been so nice to chat with you, Your Highness.”

The infante kissed her hand, and then followed Duilio and Joaquim from the room.

“The newspaper article wasn't amusing,” Duilio whispered to the infante as they walked toward the library.

“Actually,” the infante said, “I thought it was. And if you're to
work for me, it will be better if the public doesn't believe you an imbecile.”

Well, he couldn't argue with that logic, although he
hadn't
promised the infante that he would take a government position. Duilio shook his head regretfully, wishing necessity hadn't forced him to refuse. Once they'd settled in the library, the infante taking one of the chairs at the table, Duilio filled him in on their afternoon's discoveries.

When he'd finished, the infante pinched the bridge of his nose. “That's insane.”

Duilio nodded. “The line between madness and genius is thin at times. The prince will die slowly and in great pain, and he will have consented to his own murder because he wanted more power than he was born with.”

The infante laid his hands on the polished surface of the table. “Will die?”

“We're too late to stop it, Your Highness.”

The infante sat back, presenting Duilio with his aquiline profile.

The library door opened, and Oriana stepped inside, now dressed in one of her old black skirts and a black shirtwaist. Over that she wore Duilio's brown sporting coat, a less-than-fashionable ensemble. She carried a low-brimmed hat under one arm, and her hair was tightly bound at the nape of her neck. She spotted the cherry box on the table and went to retrieve the small gun from within. She stuffed it into her leather cummerbund, picked out a handful of bullets, and slipped them into a coat pocket.

“I should be more upset by this,” the infante said. “He's my brother, but . . .”

“He's had you under arrest for years,” Duilio said. “And even though we're not supposed to say it, half the city thinks he's insane.”

“And yet that doesn't make me feel better about it,” the infante said. He rose when Joaquim stepped back into the library.

“The carriage is ready,” Joaquim said. “Are we?”

Duilio looked around at the others. Stalling wouldn't make them any readier.

*   *   *

A
njos waited behind his desk at the house on Boavista Avenue, a grim expression on his face. Gaspar stood at one side of the room, the Lady seated near him, and in the far corner Miss Vladimirova sat, a black presence in her web of veils and stillness. Her hands were folded neatly in her lap, and Oriana didn't see the woman breathing. She shuddered, causing Duilio to touch his hand to her back.

“Raimundo,” the Lady said, rising, “what are you doing here?”

“I got locked out of my room,” the infante said ruefully when she embraced him. “I went out this morning, but when I came back there were guards on my door, ones I don't trust, so I left.”

“Any idea why?” she asked suspiciously.

“No. I assumed I was in trouble with Fabricio again, although from what I've heard, something worse is afoot.” He gestured toward Duilio, who proceeded to tell them about the information garnered from Silva and the horrible discovery on Almada Street.

The Lady had settled back in her chair. “Yes, Father Salazar was defrocked about five years ago. He'd been working with prisoners at the Unnaturals prison in Lleida, and it came to light that he and the doctor involved had been experimenting on them. ‘Illicit medical studies of transplantation,' the Jesuit father called it. So we have the right man.”

“Unnaturals prison?” Oriana asked. That didn't sound good.

The Lady turned her pale eyes on her. “In Spain they imprison nonhumans and witches who refuse to disavow their gifts. It was the perfect place for their experiments. They had a population of prisoners whom the Spanish government despised. It had been going on for years before the Jesuit order discovered their priest's involvement.”

“And they defrocked him as a direct result,” Joaquim said. “He
should have lost the protection of the Church then, but it appears he managed to keep his expulsion secret.”

Oriana frowned. She had missed something, some key that would unlock a door for her.

“I suspect it was in the interest of those running the prison to look the other way,” the Lady told him. “Now that we've affirmed he's our murderer, I cannot stress enough how deadly he is. No one other than Miguel or Nadezhda should go near him.”

That made sense, since Inspector Gaspar was immune to magic and Miss Vladimirova was, well,
already dead
.

“I have little to lose,” Anjos added, grinding out his cigarette, “and little to attract him. I'll go with them to find Salazar.”

For the first time, Miss Vladimirova inhaled. “I want you close, but do not approach him. You cannot run.”

Anjos shook his head. “I can't help with the sereia woman, if she's there. That will have to come down to Ferreira and Miss Paredes.” He turned to Joaquim. “You, Inspector Tavares, will stay with His Highness. You are to keep the infante safe until you can turn him over to the protection of his guards. Are you armed?”

“Yes, sir.” Joaquim patted the coat pocket where he'd stashed one of Duilio's revolvers.

“Then we'll take a team through the front gates.” Anjos turned to the Lady. “Once we get inside, I want you to find a quiet corner and stay out of trouble. Otherwise Miguel will fret.”

Gaspar didn't argue with that assertion. The Lady merely inclined her head regally.

“So we'll all go together?” Duilio ask.

Anjos pulled out his cigarette case and scowled down at it. It was empty. He closed it and laid it aside. “While I would prefer to leave His Highness here, we need two entries into the palace to be sure someone gets in. The three of you will go with him the way he usually sneaks out—through the park.”

The park around the palace was steep and heavily wooded.
There was no moon tonight, and in the darkness it must be easy to get lost. “How will we find our way?” Oriana asked.

“Trust me,” the infante told her. “I do this regularly, Miss Paredes, and often at night.”

Anjos rose, one hand on the desk for support. “Let's go before Serpa and Salazar get away.”

Oriana realized what was missing from the discussion—Maria Melo. “Lady? Do they imprison sereia at that unnatural prison?”

Anjos looked to the Lady, as did the others. Her brows rose. “
Unnaturals
prison. Not exactly. My understanding is that there are sereia there, but they
run
the prison, since they can control others with their
call.
”

“Canaries, you mean, then,” Oriana corrected. “The sereia in Spain originally came from the Canary Islands. They're the ones who serve the Spanish navy. The sereia at that prison would be Canaries, not my people.” Even if their service aboard Spanish naval vessels had been forced initially, over the centuries the Canaries had become the willing partners of their captors. Oriana could easily see how their talents could be used to control a prison.
This has to be part of the puzzle.

The Lady inclined her head. “Yes. That must be the case. I doubt the Spanish would trust anyone from the Portuguese islands with such a responsibility.”

If Mrs. Melo had been at that Unnaturals prison, she could have met Serpa and Salazar there. It explained the tie between them that hadn't made sense before. And Canary bloodlines bore visible differences, Oriana had heard—a small dorsal fin and ventral striping, either of which her mother might have accidentally seen. Or heard about.

Her people hadn't associated with the Canaries for centuries, distrusting both the Canaries' willing service to a human throne and their acceptance of the Christian religion. Canaries weren't allowed on the Ilhas das Sereias, so it was shocking that one could
have infiltrated the Ministry of Intelligence. Oriana nodded slowly, thinking that she might have just found the key to her family's troubles.

“Maria Melo?” Duilio asked her, clearly tracking her thoughts.

“She's a Canary, a
Spanish
agent,” Oriana whispered. “Hiding in my own people's Ministry of Intelligence.”

That
would
be a secret big enough to destroy lives.

O
nly the occasional streetlamp lit the rolling carriage now, creating brief flashes of illumination within. Oriana sat facing forward, her shoulder pressed against Duilio's. The infante and Joaquim shared the backward-facing bench, probably far more uncomfortable for Joaquim than his royal companion.

The infante turned out to be a handsome man with an expressive face that currently showed his inner turmoil. Oriana found him
likable.
He certainly lacked the distant superiority she'd endured from many of the social elite. In her time as Lady Isabel's companion, she had met far more of those self-important noblemen than men like him or Duilio. She'd clearly been traveling in the wrong circles.

She could make out Duilio's profile, but couldn't see his features to know what he was thinking. They were about to walk into the palace and try to arrest the insane doctor and his wife—who may very well be a Canary spy. Anjos wanted Serpa and his accomplices to stand trial for the murders of the four girls in addition to the prince's eventual death. Oriana doubted he'd get his wish. There was the issue of assassination . . . and treason. Against the enormity of those crimes, the citizens of the Golden City would care little about the deaths of four commoners, no matter how gruesome.

Sighing, she touched Duilio's hand where it lay on his leg. His head turned in her direction. She beckoned him closer and whispered into his ear what she hadn't managed to say to him before. She
had practiced silently in the dressing room while Teresa braided up her hair, and yet it was still difficult. This time the words came out—no more than a whisper, but audible nonetheless. “I love you.”

He set his forehead against hers. “That's the perfect gift.”

She breathed in the smell of his skin and then sat back, not wanting to distract him—or herself—further. The carriage rattled along the cobbles, and all too soon it came to a stop. Duilio peered outside into the darkness, opened the door and stepped down. He folded out the steps and let the rest of them climb out.

The driver had stopped halfway between two streetlamps, which meant the darkness around them was thick. Oriana wasn't certain where they were, but clearly Duilio recognized the place. They appeared to be on a street near the back side of the palace, behind the man-made hill on which it rose. She lifted her eyes toward it, feeling a trickle of dread down her back.

On a moonless night, the palace was an intimidating shape in the darkness, its ornate merlons lit by myriad lanterns. She'd never been this close. Someone like her—a nonhuman and not welcome—would never voluntarily walk into that place.

“We'll go up through the park,” the infante said. “It's steep, but there aren't many guards to hide you from.”

Oriana gazed up at the hillside. She could walk forever, but climbing steep streets winded her. She touched Duilio's hand. “I may not be able to keep up.”

“Don't go too fast,” Duilio said to the infante. “We may have trouble with the slope.”

“We can go ahead,” Joaquim said. “Time's of the essence.”

“We can't,” the infante said. “We have to stay together for me to hide you from the guards.”

“I'll do the best I can,” Oriana promised.

“We won't leave you,” the infante said firmly. “Let's get started.”

The wall surrounding the palace had arches that gave visitors access to the gardens, allowing the citizens to use the lower parts as
a public park. Oriana spotted one of those near the end of the street where they stood, across the wide avenue that separated the palace from the rest of the city. They walked back around to the alleyway to avoid the streetlamp, but then boldly crossed the road. A single carriage trundled along the cobbles, loud in the night air. A handful of pedestrians laughed as they walked along the roadside in the opposite direction. None seemed to notice the group slipping under one of the arches. They walked underneath it and onto an unlit pathway.

“Give me a moment,” Oriana begged. They waited while she lifted her skirts and tucked them up into her tight cummerbund. Showing her stocking-covered legs might be shocking in Portuguese society, but necessity outweighed propriety. “That should help.”

None of the men argued. They followed the infante through the dense foliage, keeping close together for fear of losing track of one another. After a climb that seemed to go on for half the distance up the hillside, Oriana felt worn out. But the infante's voice drifted back to her. “There's a rope here and a ramp to help us get the rest of the way up.”

A second climb ensued, steeper this time. After a particularly precipitous patch, Oriana's lungs began to burn. Duilio slowed and drew her into his grasp, one arm wrapped about her waist and the other on the rope. He carried half her weight, so they managed to keep up, finally coming up into a clearing where a small domed building stood hidden among shadowy trees. A single pair of flickering gaslights on either side of an archway lit an inner door.

Oriana leaned against one of the pillars to catch her breath. “What is this place?”

“It used to be a studio, I believe,” the infante said. “Forgotten now. The trees have grown so much that it can't be seen from the patios any longer.”

In the faint illumination of the hissing gaslights, she spotted Joaquim gazing up at the remaining slope and turned to look at it
herself. The last stretch to reach the palace walls seemed vertical. “How do we get up that?”

The infante reached into his waistcoat pocket and drew out a key. “There are stairs. Much easier, I promise.”

For a moment she wanted to throw herself on his neck in gratitude. “Thank the gods.”

He laughed softly and opened the door under the archway with his key. He handed the key to Duilio. “Lock it behind you.”

A tight spiral staircase cut into the stone of the hillside led up from that spot. Lights hissed over their heads, casting wobbling shadows all about them, the gas pipes running exposed along the stone walls. The stairwell deposited them one story lower in a tunnel with a cobblestone surface. It had the same feeble lighting, but all of them could walk along it abreast. The tunnel sloped upward, then turned back on itself and ramped up another level. The air smelled musty.

“Is this the entryway tunnel?” Duilio asked softly.

The infante shook his head. “No, it mirrors the one on the opposite side of the palace.”

“So we'll come out on the basement level?”

“Yes. We'll come out into the basement level of the old tower, below the entry level. We're actually under the new palace right now, but we can't get up there from here.”

They continued walking along the dark tunnel until they reached another large wooden door. “This is where faith comes in,” the infante said. “If the wrong guard is stationed there, we're going to have to incapacitate him.”

On one side of the heavy wooden door, Joaquim drew his gun but flipped it about so that he held it butt out. Oriana pressed herself to one side of the tunnel wall, while Duilio did the same. The infante waited until they were all ready, and then knocked lightly on the heavy wooden door. When nothing happened, he rapped louder.

The rattling of the lock warned them before the door swung
inward. A big man stepped to the threshold, his old-fashioned blue uniform marking him as a palace guard. A wide smile crossed his face. “Your Highness, I had almost given up hope.”

The infante relaxed visibly. “Bastião, what's happening in the palace?”

The big man surveyed them all quickly and said, “The prince and his doctor have been closeted since the noon hour in the new building. The guards have all been ordered to let them alone.”

The guard caught sight of Oriana's tucked-up skirts and stocking-clad legs. He looked away, flushing. Oriana quickly tugged her skirts free.

The infante began to walk and the guard fell in next to him, with the three of them following. “Has anyone missed me?”

“I don't think so, Your Highness,” Bastião said. “You're still supposed to be locked in your quarters. I have noticed that about half the guards seem to be missing, mostly yours.”

Oriana walked faster to keep up with the men.
Yours
must mean guards who were sympathetic to the infante rather than the prince.

The infante scowled. “I was afraid of that. That means the remaining ones would stop us from entering the new building.”

Duilio drew his revolver from his pocket. Oriana thought about her stubby gun, but decided to let Duilio do the shooting for now.

“Stay close,” the infante said, “move slowly, and be quiet.”

The big guard stepped around the infante so that he stood behind the man, and pointed to the ground next to him, apparently wanting Joaquim on that side. Oriana stayed behind them with Duilio, and the infante led the way, stepping into the tower room with a firm tread.

To one side of the huge basement room, another guard sat in a wooden chair, tied up and with a gag in his mouth. Oriana watched the man's eyes as they walked past him and toward the stairwell on the other side of the floor. The guard didn't spot them. The infante was, indeed, hiding them all from sight.

They crossed the wide floor, walked through another archway and into another spiral staircase. She was beginning to think the mazelike reputation of the palace was underrated. They wended their way up that staircase, and came out into a short hallway that actually led outside. The infante opened the door and strode down the steps to a wide patio. A guard patrolled the outer edge, pacing along its length, but he didn't notice their exit from the building, or even the door's movement. Oriana closed it as softly as she could, grateful their luck was holding.

The blue-tiled walls were ornate, but she didn't have a chance to look at them. They hurried past a pair of stone columns carved to look like giant ropes and up the stairs into a far more severe and plain part of the palace, a section that rose stories above the others—the new building, she guessed, where the guards had been told not to go. As soon as they walked through the arched doorway, she could tell something was wrong. A vibration prickled along her skin, so faint she might have thought she imagined it if she hadn't seen Duilio pause and shake his head.

The lighting in this section of the palace was brighter. A wide carpet runner muffled their steps but the stillness about them felt strange, as if that part of the palace was abandoned. Oriana didn't see any guards down the long white hallway before them. She leaned toward Duilio. “Are there usually guards here?”

“Yes,” the infante remarked in a conversational tone. “I wonder where they've gone.”

The vibration along Oriana's skin abruptly intensified until she could feel it in her bones, abruptly identifiable—the call of a
male
sereia, but uncontrolled and panicked.

It wasn't her uncle.