Prisoner of the Iron Tower (33 page)

He felt her hand slip into his.

“Let’s go back now, Papa.”

Somewhere in the palace, musicians began tuning up. Reedy squeaks were punctuated by low brass groanings, more akin to the sounds of some great beast in pain than musical notes. Eugene groaned too as he read the latest dispatches, putting his hands to his head. How could he think coherently amid this racket?

Gustave had marked the last communiqué with a secret cypher meaning “of special significance.” It was a transcript of a message sent by Vox Aethyria from one of his agents in Francia:

Royal naval regatta off coast of Fenez-Tyr. King Enguerrand present on royal barge. Many newly built men-o’-war and frigates.

Were his instincts right? Was Francia arming itself for some new military initiative? Was New Rossiya under threat of attack? This did not fit the picture his agents had built up of the pious Enguerrand, who preferred to spend his days in prayer and good works.

Enguerrand would never dare attack us. He’s too busy with his clerics and his Commanderie inquisitions to look beyond his own borders.

There came a tap at his door.

“Enter.”

He looked up and saw to his astonishment that his visitor was Kaspar Linnaius. The Magus must have just returned from his travels, for he rarely came inside the palace; it was their custom for Eugene to visit him in his laboratory, where no one could overhear their conversations. So this unexpected visit must mean he had urgent news.

He raised his voice in case anyone was listening. “So you’ve come to discuss the fireworks for the ball, Linnaius? I hope you’ve prepared some surprises for us this year.”

“Oh I think your highness will not be disappointed.” Linnaius glanced warily around the study. “I’ll just take a few precautions,” he said softly. He moved from the threshold to the windows, scattering grains of colorless dust on the polished floorboards as he walked, enclosing them both in a circle. Then he drew a tiny bone whistle from his robes and breathed into it until it emitted an unpleasant, high-pitched hiss. The dust granules began to vibrate in sympathy with the whistle’s ear-grating note, then they slowly rose into the air, encompassing Linnaius and Eugene in a subtly shimmering canopy, almost invisible to the naked eye.

“What is that dust? What does it do?”

“Imagine, if you will, the equivalent of shadowsilk in sound, highness. Anyone passing by your study would catch nothing of our conversation but an inaudible murmur.”

“You never cease to amaze me, Linnaius. And what will you call this new invention of yours?”

“ ‘Whisperdust’ seems appropriate . . . but a better title may yet present itself. Now we may talk without fear of being overheard.”

“Our agent in Smarna has confirmed it. Gavril Nagarian is very much alive. Alive and waiting to lure me into another confrontation. God knows how, he seemed a broken man back in Muscobar.” And suddenly he found himself saying what, until now, he had not put into words. “Why did I spare his life? I should have sent him to his death on the scaffold.”

“And why
did
you spare his life?” asked Linnaius slyly.

Eugene sighed; the old man knew him better than he knew himself. “I wanted to learn his secrets. And now he is free and more powerful than before.”

“Powerful, maybe, but you have Artamon’s Tears. And I believe I have finally located the lost land they call Ty Nagar.”

Eugene felt a dark thrill of excitement. “Then what’s to stop us? We shall leave tonight—”

“We can be in Ty Nagar in a matter of hours, highness. Oh—and in case you still require her services, I have brought Kiukirilya.” Linnaius loosened his outer robe, revealing a thick golden chain around his neck. Suspended from the chain hung a delicate, jewellike glass in the shape of a lotus flower.

“Her spirit?” Eugene’s voice dropped to a whisper. “Trapped in there? How is that possible?”

“It is a trap that can only be sprung when the spirit leaves the body, highness. A shaman is always vulnerable to such snares.”

“And the body?” Eugene was fascinated in spite of himself. “Doesn’t it decay without the spirit to animate it?”

“She lies in a deep sleep. The longer she lies asleep, the harder it will be to reunite body and spirit.”

“She’ll die?” The shaman girl’s spirit burned blue as a peerless spring sky; leaning closer, Eugene caught shimmers of pale iridescent colors against the blue, like drifts of mist. “Then perhaps you’d better wake her. She’s too useful to us.”

“I believe you have another official duty to be fulfilled first.” Linnaius gestured toward the window. “And I have to check that my artificiers have prepared the fireworks display exactly as I instructed.”

Until then, Eugene had been so intent on the Magus’s news that he had not noticed how effectively the whisperdust had screened out the cacophony created by his busy household.

“The ball.” He let out a groan. Just when his elusive goal seemed a little more attainable, there was this farce of a ball to endure. But he had promised Karila he would be there. He could not let her down again. And then there was Astasia . . .

“As soon as the Dievona Bonfires are lit, then.”

“And your alibi?”

Damn it all, must he think up an alibi as well? Of course, now that he was Emperor, he could not just ride off hunting; he had to tell a hundred officials and more. And yet, a solitary hunting trip seemed as good an alibi as any other. . . .

“Leave it to me.”

“Very good.” Linnaius bowed.

Eugene saw him raise his hand to collapse the canopy of whisperdust. “Wait!” he said, remembering. There was one more matter of some urgency left to discuss. “Linnaius, does the name Fabien d’Abrissard mean anything to you?”

The Magus slowly shook his head. “A Francian name. No, I recall no one called d’Abrissard.”

“He is the new Francian ambassador. It seems that King Enguerrand is most eager that I hand you over to his inquisitors. In fact, the word used was ‘demands.’ ” All the while he was speaking, Eugene was watching Linnaius closely to see how he reacted. But Linnaius showed little reaction, other than to quirk one wispy white brow.

“And how did your imperial highness answer?”

Eugene found himself smiling. “How do you think, Magus? An emperor does not take kindly to such terms as ‘demand’ or ‘insist.’ ” He leaned toward the Magus, earnest now. “I have never asked what caused you to flee Francia. I have not the slightest interest in what happened before you came to Tielen. But Abrissard is not a man to take no for an answer. They mean to hunt you down, old friend. I will protect you in every way I can, but please take care. They are out for your blood.”

The Emperor’s warning still tolling in his head, Kaspar Linnaius went out onto the terrace to supervize the installation of his fireworks. In his grey robes, he passed all but unnoticed among the harassed servants who were now hurrying to and fro with trays of clinking wine glasses and baskets of silver cutlery.

Fabien d’Abrissard.
The name meant nothing to him. And as far as he knew, the Francian courts had ensured that no one among his fellow magisters at the Thaumaturgical College had survived the purge—not even the students. One devout order in particular, the Commanderie, had devoted itself to the cause with great zeal. Their leader claimed to be divinely inspired in his quest to rid the world of daemonic influences. He was even said to be able to summon angels.

Linnaius was continuing on toward his rooms when he heard music and laughter issuing from an open window. Glancing inside, he saw the Empress Astasia at the fortepiano, accompanying a young woman singer. Her voice, when she began the interrupted phrase again, was golden and glorious. It stirred echoes deep within him of some unfamiliar feeling, long buried. He knew he should not linger here, he had work to do . . . and yet he could not tear himself away.

He stood there until the Empress lost control of the keyboard part and broke off, laughing helplessly. The singer sang on for a bar or two and then joined in the laughter, leaning on the fortepiano to support herself. And then the Empress caught sight of him on the terrace outside.

“Hush,” she said, wiping tears of laughter from her eyes, “we have an audience.”

The singer glanced around. Such blue eyes; the intense blue of a cloudless summer sky . . . Linnaius felt a shiver run through him. What was he doing, a man of his age, allowing himself to be distracted by a young woman? He made an effort to collect himself and bowed to the Empress.

“Beautiful music, ladies,” he said. “I must congratulate you.” And he turned away, hastily directing his steps toward the West Wing and his laboratory.

Astasia watched from the Music Room window until the Magus had disappeared around the corner of the palace.

“There is no privacy to be had in Swanholm,” she said. She no longer felt like laughing.

“Tell me, highness,” said Celestine, “who is that ancient scholar we saw just now?”

Astasia pulled a grimace. “The Magus? His name is Kaspar Linnaius. He’s a scientist, I believe, though he has an official court title like ‘Royal Artificier’ or some such.”

“He looks at least a hundred years old!” said Celestine with a mischievous laugh.

“I confess he gives me the shivers. It’s his eyes: so lifeless, so cold . . .”

“And he resides here at Swanholm?”

“He has his own laboratory in a wing of the palace. The Emperor had it built especially for him.”

“The Emperor is such a generous patron to the arts and sciences.”

Yes,
Astasia thought,
I suppose he is, whatever other faults he may have. My husband encourages those with talents to make the most of their gifts, even if he doesn’t appreciate or understand them himself. Perhaps he will dance with me at the ball. . . .

Kaspar Linnaius made certain that the invisible wards protecting his laboratory were doubly secure before he entered his rooms.

Abrissard . . .

He took down a red-bound ledger and checked the list of names inscribed on its age-stained pages. There was no mention of a Fabien d’Abrissard in this dossier recording the movements of his few surviving enemies in Francia, painstakingly compiled over the years from Eugene’s sources abroad. Surely the Commanderie would not dare to strike at him here in Tielen, under the Emperor’s protection? And yet . . . had he risked too much in performing the forbidden rite of soul-stealing?

The Magus unlocked the door to his bedchamber.

There she lay, on his simple bed, the Guslyar Kiukirilya—or at least her body, for her life-spirit was trapped in the crystal soul-glass he wore on a chain close to his heart. How pale her skin had become, almost translucent.

He bent a little closer to his prisoner, to ensure that she still breathed. Yes, there was the faintest sound of respiration.

A strand of wheat-fair hair had strayed loose from her braids; he stretched out to brush it off her forehead. And the fact that she did not even stir as his fingertips touched her brow set his troubled mind at rest. She, at least, was no threat.

He padded softly from the room, securing the door with a simple lock ward that would respond only to his voice. Then he unrolled the chart he had been working on, based on his studies of Zakhar Nagarian’s books and Serzhei of Azhkendir’s hidden star chart.

It was a map of the seas and lands that lay far to the south, beyond the shores of Djihan-Djihar. An archipelago had been charted by Tielen explorers on a perilous journey in search of new lands to colonize, early in Prince Karl’s reign. Volcanoes dominated the islands of the archipelago, and the partial eruption of one of the smaller cones had sunk one of the ships and sent the others scurrying away. But not before the explorers had noted the existence of ruins on several islands, that hinted at some past great civilization.

“It has to be Ty Nagar,” he muttered.

Karila was dreaming. . . .

The priests from the Sacred Island stand on the shore, tall, lean, their shaven heads gleaming in the sun. They are wearing robes of white and each has the emblem of the god painted on his forehead and shoulder in dark red dye: a winged serpent.

“Tell your children we bring gifts; gifts from the Sacred Isle.”

The people of the village gather in twos and threes; the men have left their fishing and their net-mending, the women their hearths.

“Gifts?” She is curious in spite of herself. Other children creep out from their hiding places as one of the priests spreads a woven cloth on the sand and places on it honey cakes, strings of beads, and little painted animals fired from clay. A bird catches her eye: Its colors are as fresh and bright as her fire-feather. She cannot stop herself; she has to have it for herself. As her fingers close around her treasure, her mother arrives, carrying her little brother.

“Tilua? Come away!”

“Look,” she says, proud and happy to show her mother the beautiful toy. But her mother stares at it as if it were a poisonous snake.

“Put it back—quick, now!” she hisses.

One of the priests blocks her way. He is old and hunched, like her grandfather. “Show me what you have chosen, little one.” He takes her hand and gently uncurls her clenched fingers. When he sees the firebird, he holds it aloft with a shout of triumph.

Now the priests move toward her. She gazes up at them as they slowly encircle her, and feels herself begin to shake with fear.

“It is an honor, Tilua. Nagar has chosen you to serve him.”

She begins to cry. “I don’t want to be chosen.” She doesn’t want to go with these horrible men. She doesn’t want to leave her mother. She clings to her. “Don’t make me go!” Her little brother starts to cry too.

“You must go, Tilua. The god has chosen you.”

“But I want to stay here.”

“If Nagar is angry, he will make the fire-mountain spit out flame and rocks; the sea will boil and wash away your village.” The oldest priest kneels beside her and points to the distant trace of drifting grey smoke on the horizon. “You don’t want to make the god angry, do you, Tilua?”