TWENTY-SIX
The debate I had sparked in Parliament, fueled by my father’s words, raged on for two more days.
In the end, it was closer than it might have been, but not close enough. When at last the two branches agreed to vote on the confirmation of Duc Rogier de Barthelme as the Regent of Terre d’Ange, almost a full third of the members voted against it.
Almost.
All fourteen members of the Low Council voted against it; and seventeen members of the High Council joined them. But it wasn’t enough. By a quorum of two-thirds of his peers, Rogier de Barthelme was appointed Regent.
“You did your best,” Bao consoled me. “And your father was splendid.”
I sighed. “Aye, but now we’ve a new dilemma.”
Bao glanced westward. “Terra Nova?”
I nodded. “It’s not as though there’s a ship on which we can book passage. I don’t have the first idea about how to get one to take us there. Do you?”
“No,” he admitted. “But I know who does. And I think he will be very interested in what you have to say.”
“Do you think he’ll believe it?” I asked. “Because apparently, my credibility is questionable.”
Bao shrugged. “We can but try, Moirin.”
Somewhat to my surprise, Balthasar Shahrizai did believe me. He heard me out as I told of Jehanne’s appearances in my dreams, and the last one in which she had revealed that Prince Thierry was alive. When I had finished, he paced our parlor like a captive panther, lean and restless, his blue-black braids swinging. “You’re sure?” he asked, echoing my question to Jehanne. “You’re sure?”
My diadh-anam flared. “Quite sure, my lord.”
“I know it may seem strange,” Bao added. “But I would willingly wager my life on it.”
Balthasar paused and tapped his lips in thought. “Money’s no object,” he said absently. “House Shahrizai is swimming in it. I’ve no doubt I can persuade my great-aunt Celestine to back a second expedition, and I daresay there are others who would be willing to support it, especially on the rumor that Thierry lives. But it would require a letter of decree from our blasted Regent to authorize it.” He gave me a deep look. “I suspect it best if you stay far, far away from that process, Moirin.”
I shuddered. “Gladly.”
“We need more information,” he said in a decisive tone. “We need to talk to Denis de Toluard and find out everything he knows. What made him so certain that Thierry was dead? And if he’s not, what in the seven hells happened to him?”
“Good questions,” Bao agreed, slinging his staff over his shoulder. “Let’s go find him.”
As it happened, that was easier said than done. At Denis de Toluard’s townhouse, his steward informed us that his lordship had gone to Night’s Doorstep to drink himself into a stupor after the funeral, with strict orders that he was to be left to his own devices until he was good and ready to return.
“But that was two days ago,” the steward added, a worried look on his face. “I’d be grateful if you’d find him and bring him back. I haven’t seen him in such a state since—” He gave me a sidelong glance and didn’t finish.
I knew what he was thinking. Other than that day on the docks, the last time I’d seen Denis de Toluard was the day the Circle of Shalomon summoned Focalor, and Claire Fourcay had been killed.
The steward wrung his hands. “Just bring him home safely, will you? I’d never forgive myself if he followed in his majesty’s footsteps.”
“We’ll find him,” Balthasar promised.
We spent the day searching every tavern and wineshop in Night’s Doorstep, where no one had seen Denis since the night before. At last, a worn-looking young woman in a threadbare gown, pretty enough to serve Naamah, but not pretty enough to serve in one of the Houses of the Night Court, told us that she’d seen him staggering toward the wharf around dawn.
“I recognized him,” she said. “So I followed him for a time. I was afraid he might…” She hesitated.
“Follow in his majesty’s footsteps?” I asked gently.
The young woman nodded. “He didn’t, though. He turned into the first tavern he came to. So I went home.”
“You’re a good girl,” Balthasar said in approval, fishing in the purse at his belt. “What’s your name?”
She curtsied. “Caterine, my lord.”
He pressed several coins into her hand, closing her fingers over them. “A token of thanks for your concern. Buy yourself a new gown, my love.”
Caterine peered into her hand and gaped. A good deal of gold glinted in her palm. “My lord!”
Balthasar patted her on the head. “Or a dozen gowns, or a pony. Whatever you like. Come, let’s on to the wharf.”
“See, I told you he was a good fellow, Moirin,” Bao said to me as we set out to follow him in the direction of the river, the girl Caterine staring after us.
“So it seems,” I agreed. “Despite appearances.”
“Keep it to yourselves,” Balthasar said with an ironic glance over his shoulder. “I wouldn’t want to ruin my hard-won reputation.”
The taverns along the wharf were rough places, catering to the sailors and boatmen who frequented them. These were not establishments where one went to enjoy the conviviality and slightly disreputable thrill of Night’s Doorstep. They were places where men went to drown their sorrows and brawl. To be sure, I received some strange looks as we searched for Denis de Toluard in them, and Bao unslung his staff after our first unsuccessful foray, holding it in a casual defensive pose, his dark eyes glinting in warning.
The sun was beginning to set in the west, slanting rays gilding the Aviline River, when at last we found our quarry. It was in the fourth tavern or fifth tavern we tried along the docks; a fusty little place with rough-hewn walls streaked with the soot of decades’ worth of candle and lamp-smoke.
“Him?” The innkeeper nodded at Balthasar’s inquiry, jerking his thumb toward the back of the room. “Oh, aye. I reckon that’s who you’re after.”
Denis de Toluard was a wreck.
When I’d first met him, I’d reckoned him a pretty enough fellow with a handsome face, brown curls, and bright blue eyes. Now his face was haggard and lined beyond his years, his hair was greasy and matted, and his bleary, red-rimmed eyes could barely focus on us as we approached him where he slumped over a table, surrounded by half a dozen drunken sailors.
“Balthasar?” he slurred.
Balthasar Shahrizai folded his arms over the chest of his elegant velvet doublet. “Time to go home, Denis.”
“Nuh-uh. Nuh-uh.” He wrapped his hands protectively around a leather tankard, giving me a blurry look. “Moirin?”
“Hello, Denis,” I said softly. I had lingering cause to be angry with him, but I couldn’t be cruel. Not here, not now. “Balthasar is right. It’s time to go home.”
“No!” His hands tightened, denting the leather tankard. “I don’ wanna!”
“You’re coming with us,” Balthasar said mildly, exchanging a glance with Bao. “Willing or no.”
“I’m not goin’ anywhere with you. You didn’ even have the ballocks to come with us. These are my friends, my only real friends.” Denis de Toluard gestured around him with drunken dignity. “Sailed with ’em to Terra Nova and alla way back. Damn bloody Nahuatl, damn bloody place. Thierry, Raphael, alla them… Gone, all gone. And we did nothing. Nothing, I tell you! Don’ know what we could, but we didn’t.” He rubbed at his eyes. “They unnerstand, they do. So lemme be.”
One of the sailors rose unsteadily, looming over the table. “You heard ’is lordship. Let ’im be.”
“Sit down.” Bao tapped him smartly in the center of his chest with the butt end of his staff. The sailor fell back into his chair and looked surprised. Others rose with menacing intentions. Bao grinned and twirled his staff until it was a blur, making the air sing. “It’s been too long since I had a good fight,” he said cheerfully. “Go ahead.”
Two of them lunged at him at once. Bao’s staff whipped left and right, and both sailors fell back, clutching their heads and groaning. He jabbed a third in the belly, and the fellow doubled over with a grunt of pain.
“Bao, wait.” I tugged on his black-and-white magpie coat. “My lord Denis, listen. We need to talk to you. I have reason to believe Thierry is alive.”
Denis de Toluard stared at me with bleary eyes.
“Raphael, too,” I added.
He held up one hand to forestall the sailors, who were all too glad to comply, then leaned over and vomited a copious quantity of ale onto the tavern floor.
“Oh, gods!” Balthasar Shahrizai exclaimed in disgust. Bao leaned on his staff without comment.
“Do you mean to torture me, Moirin?” Denis lurched upright in his chair, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand. At least he sounded marginally less incoherent after having spewed the contents of his belly. “Is that it? Is this repayment for the way the Circle of Shalomon used you?” His mouth twisted bitterly. “A trick, like the tricks the spirits we summoned taught you to play? That would be a fine jest.”
“No.” I stooped beside his chair, taking care to keep my skirts out of the puddle of vomit, and looked him in the eyes. “I swear to you by stone and sea and sky, and all that they encompass, by the sacred troth that binds me to my diadh-anam, it is no trick.”
All the sailors were silent.
Denis de Toluard held my gaze for a moment, reading the truth of my words written there; and then buried his face in his hands. “Elua!” he gasped in a muffled tone. “Take me home, please.”