Labyrinth Gate (39 page)

At the sound of her voice, Lucias stirred. “The treasure,” he muttered, rolling his head from one side to the other. “She means to have it, to use the power to rid herself of the heiress.” His head lolled back as he lapsed into unconsciousness.

Maretha had already started forward.

“Come on,” said Chryse, a little urgent, “She won’t wait.”

Julian picked up Lucias and carried him. They followed Maretha in a close line; the earl trailed along at the rear. Maretha’s lead was swift and sure—soon enough they came to the base of a stairwell and ascended it. They halted in the small, square room at its end for Sanjay to catch his breath and Julian to rest his arms.

“Chryse.” Sanjay reached into his coat pocket. “You dropped this.” He drew out the velvet pouch.

She gasped and reached in her turn for her belt. Stopped. “No, I didn’t. I still have it.”

“Then what—No, you’re right. This has a funny little monogram on the other side—I didn’t notice it before.”

Into the silence left by the quiet of their companions and the sudden realization shared by both of them, Madame Sosostris’s words echoing as along a dark tunnel—“the one thing in the city of the Queen that will be familiar to you”—they heard from far above a command called out and a reply.

“Quick,” ordered Maretha.

They all filed up the steps after her to find themselves at the edge of their camp, surrounded by soldiers. There was a flurry of movement among the troops, and a moment later out of the ranks appeared Colonel Whitmore.

“My lord.” He addressed himself to the Earl. His tone was not at all conciliatory. “I apologize for this intrusion, but we have been forced to take over your camp and belongings and to detain you and your people. You possess certain items that we have been ordered to obtain. Give them to us, and you will be allowed to leave.”

It was Maretha who replied. Her entire aspect was fierce, strong, and completely self-confident. “What items?” she demanded.

“That boy.” He pointed at Lucias, who still lay unconscious in Julian’s grasp. “The treasure.” He returned his gaze to the disheveled earl. His tone was mocking. “My orders are to obtain them, or to execute every member of this expedition.”

Behind him, like the embodiment of his threat, rose a woman’s anguished cry.

“B
RING HER IN HERE,”
commanded the Regent.

Four servants bearing a litter followed her into the inner room of her suite and set their burden down carefully. None looked up, or evinced any curiosity at all about their surroundings.

The Regent paced around the chamber. It was obvious by her expression and her taut, quick movements that she was furious.

“Go!” she ordered, and they were quick to comply. “No, you!” She pointed at the youngest of them. “You stay.”

The designated man cast a look of desperate appeal towards his retreating comrades, but there was nothing they could do. “Send Doctor Wrackwell to me.” In a moment she was alone with the litter and the young servant. She examined him minutely, as if he were a piece of livestock she were considering buying. After a bit, while he stood perfectly still, too frightened to move, she said, “You will do.”

There was a knock on the door and a tall man with an emaciated face and ill-fitting clothes entered.

“Doctor!” Her voice was sharp as any good steel blade. She walked across the room to the litter and whipped aside the curtains to reveal the unconscious figure of Princess Georgiana. The girl’s lips were slightly parted, still pink with life, though scarcely any breath escaped them. Her eyes were closed, unmoving under the lids. “When did this happen? How?”

Facing her anger, the doctor seemed remarkably unafraid. “Dawn, your highness. I had her brought here immediately.”

“Was there any warning? Any sign?”

“None, your highness,” he replied, unruffled. “Her deterioration has been remarkably gradual, very like her father’s gradual illness. Her fainting spells never too severe, her loss of appetite never too pronounced, her fatigue never too debilitating. But all worsening slowly, so imperceptible a change day by day that this lapse into a coma I knew was no part of your—ah—handiwork.”

The Regent laid a hand on Georgiana’s brow, looking thoughtful. “Is it your opinion that she will die?”

“On the contrary, I believe that hers is a state akin to suspended animation, but with some indefinable healing properties about it rather than, shall we say, draining properties.”

The Regent removed her hand from the princess’s forehead. “Very well. You will report to the Council of Ministers that her state of health is quite delicate at this time. Add a few assurances that you feel certain that it is nothing like the disease that carried off my brother. That ought to set the seal on their hopes. It shall be proclaimed to the government and the populace that unless a quick recovery comes about, the coronation will have to be postponed. I suppose preparations should continue, and Prince Frederick may as well arrive for a visit. It would not do to appear too pessimistic.” She paused, surveying Georgiana and the servant. “It is too bad,” she continued, more to herself than to any of those present, “that Nastagmas died so close to the goal. We must hope that Colonel Whitmore accomplishes what Nastagmas could not. Nevertheless.” Her gaze centered on the doctor as if she had forgotten that he was there. “You may go, doctor,” she ordered, brusque.

“The princess?” he asked, bowing.

“She will remain here. Do I understand from what you have told me that this is a condition imposed by arts other than mine?”

“That is my belief, your highness.”

“Then you do not expect the condition to lift in the near future?”

“No, your highness.”

She pressed her lips tight. “I feel the mark of another mage on her. She will stay here. You will attend her as usual once a day, to see that all is well. I will have put an illusion about her so that she appears to be something else.” She smiled, some secret irony that pleased her, and continued. “But a touch of my hand will reveal her to you when it is necessary that you examine her. Come tomorrow morning. That is all.”

He bowed. “If I may be so bold, your highness.”

She nodded.

“I am a physician, and skilled at my work. I have my suspicions about your purposes, and I wonder, why do you not simply kill her outright?”

The Regent laughed. She had not a cruel laugh, nor a clever one, but one of simple amusement. “You
are
a bold man, Doctor. I admire that. But not subtle. You must know that an adept can trace certain lingerings, certain lines of magic, and to kill for power leaves traces another mage might follow, if they had the skill and cared to. And in any case, I will have to swear I did not kill her, so I cannot risk having her death on my account. I do not
wish
to have it on my conscience. After all, I have nothing against the girl personally.”

“What guarantee do you have of my loyalty, your highness?”

“I could kill you in a moment, doctor. Or discredit you. I know a great deal about your past, and specifically about your relationship to my dear departed brother Prince William and
his
unsavory activities, some of which I know for a certainty contributed to his early death.” She shuddered. “I detest that sort of—sloppiness. But you are a neat and efficient worker. Therefore, I use you.”

“Your highness.” He bowed again, precise in angle and placement of his hands, and left.

“And come the Festival of Lights,” she said, hands clasped at her waist, like a medieval portrait of a saintly queen, “come the colonel with the treasure and the youth to be buried in her place, my oath taken on my blood as a churchwoman and a sorceress will be true enough and not affect my power or my position—since it will not be Georgiana dead and buried but a simulacrum bearing her face and her virginity—and I shall be free to keep the throne, as I should have all along.”

She walked over to her servant. “You have been here before, I think.” She put out a hand to caress his neck.

“Yes, your highness.” He trembled.

“Then you know what I require.”

They were taken, each one, and searched. The handling was circumspect, but the search thorough. The soldiers took Julian’s pistol, Kate’s scalpel, the spear; found the hornpipe and, worst, took the pouch of cards Chryse wore, the half a deck Sanjay carried, and the little velvet pouch, match to the one they had received so long ago, that Sanjay had found at the north gate of the labyrinth. Neither he nor Chryse even had time to see what was inside it.

They did not search the earl, did not even approach him, but regarded him with wary glances. Thomas Southern appeared, escorted by two soldiers, and spoke quietly and briefly to Maretha. She paled visibly and went away with him, disappearing inside the tent Charity shared with Kate.

“Now.” Colonel Whitmore’s eye roved over Kate and Chryse with the belligerent stare of an unrepentant womanizer. “We will take the boy and leave you.”

Immediately Julian and Kate stepped back to stand over Lucias where Julian had been forced to set him down on a blanket before being searched.

“He’s been wounded,” began Kate, angry. “You may very well kill him if he isn’t treated correctly.”

“That would be a shame,” replied Colonel Whitmore without a trace of compassion. He made a gesture with one hand and his soldiers moved out to surround them. “I must warn you that it has been left to my discretion whether or not to leave anyone alive in this camp.” As he said this his gaze strayed briefly to the earl, as if he were gauging his reaction.

Julian caught the glance. “My lord Elen. Surely you do not intend to tolerate this—”

But the earl merely turned aside and went without a word into his tent.

“Stand aside from the youth,” ordered Colonel Whitmore. “You see that you are surrounded.”

The tent flap to Charity’s tent was pushed aside with unceremonious haste and Maretha appeared. She shook with anger.

“How dare you!” she cried. She strode forward to stand directly in front of the colonel. “How dare you treat a woman so.” Her voice was low, but no less furious for that. “And in her condition.”

“Heaven above, your ladyship,” drawled the colonel in a lazy and insulting voice. “How were we to know that
Miss
Farr was pregnant?”

“Pregnant!” Chryse heard Kate utter the word at the exact instant she did. Sanjay and Julian exchanged knowing looks.

“How were
you
to have the decency,” Maretha cried, full in her stride now, “to search her tent, her belongings, and most of all, her
self
gently enough that you would not force her into premature labor? Now she will likely die, and the child with her.”

As if to echo her angry words, a low, ragged sobbing began in the tent behind, dissolving into a distressed moan.

“Animal!” Maretha slapped the colonel.

He caught her wrist, hard, and twisted it. “Bitch!” he hissed. “No one does that to me.” With his other hand he forced her to her knees. “I could have you executed for that, countess or no. Beg me for mercy.”

She stared up at him, her eyes blazing. Heat emanated from her. The sun rose in a full glory that spread like wildfire along the heights.

“Holy blood!” swore Kate. “It’s burning!”

Chryse followed her shocked gaze and gasped. It was not sunlight—it
was
fire, running along the heights as if it was racing along a clear path. Sparks caught and flared up through the grass, and then the flat area where the regiment’s horses waited erupted into waves of flame.

Chaos erupted. Horses neighed in fear, bolted and scattered. Soldiers ran frantically after them, as much to escape as to catch their mounts. The circle of troops that surrounded the camp fragmented quickly as lines of wildfire licked into their midst. The cook’s tent burst into flame, billowing sheets of burning canvas as the wind tugged at it.

“Take your hands off me.” Maretha’s voice was thick with rage. She seemed oblivious to the inferno growing around her.

Colonel Whitmore twisted harder on her arm. He had paled, but his lips were still set in a vicious grimace. “Tell your husband to stop this, or I will shoot you, my
lady.”
His voice was harsh, and he reached for his pistol. Around him, soldiers cried out, panicking when they had to run through flame as high as themselves to get out of the inferno.

Colonel Whitmore did not even touch the handle of his gun. The entire sleeve of the arm holding her caught fire as easily and quickly as if it had been soaked in kerosene and thrust into a raging bonfire. He screamed. The flames licked up and down his arm, skidding off Maretha as if she were invulnerable.

For a long moment he could not let go of her, but only suffer. When he could get free, his retreat was hasty and utterly undignified. His face was seared with agony.

Those of his men who could catch a horse rode out; the others fled on foot. Fire spread and smoldered and erupted again all over the valley. Julian had to hoist Lucias and haul him out of the path of a trail of flame, Sanjay sheparding Mog and Pin.

“Sanjay,” Chryse called over the crack and spit of fire. “They’ve got our Gates. We’ve got to—”

“Bloody hell!” shouted Kate. “I think the whole damn camp’s going to go.”

At the entrance of his tent, the earl appeared, like a visitation of a fallen angel come to view the apocalypse.

“Tell him to stop,” Kate called. The heat of the fire reddened her cheeks. Flame gushed up in great sheets a man’s height or higher.

“It isn’t him!” cried Sanjay. Sweat dotted his forehead. “It’s Maretha. I don’t think she has any control over it.” Fire shot up along the central path that led between the tents. A spark caught in the canvas of Charity’s tent.

Above the noise, a tiny, weak wail caught and held. Maretha started up to her feet, her rage dissolving instantly. The fire guttered abruptly and vanished as if it had never been. Maretha whirled and ran into Charity’s tent.

There was a hush, broken at last by a low, soft sound that none of them recognized. They stared around until Sanjay found its source: the earl was chuckling.