He could only imagine what was going on in the Hall of Mirrors: King Carlemmo’s corpse laid out, the queen and her fake príncipe in mourning garb, the foreign dignitaries offering condolences of various levels of sincerity, the noble guests agitated by the king’s demise and Duque Diego’s murder, Alejandro in chains and surrounded by guards, his bloody knife on the table as evidence of his misdeed.
Jean-Claude made another slow orbit of the guarded perimeter, moving through secondary hallways, passageways, and the occasional drawing room while keeping far enough away from the guarded entrances to avoid earning any soldierly attention. Every now and then the floor vibrated with the reports of cannons. The shelling had started an hour ago, and Builder only knew how much of the city had already been engulfed in fighting. He was just debating whether it would be better to climb up on the roof and try to get in through one of the clerestory windows or sneak down into the basement to look for unguarded passages, when a familiar accent tugged his attention. Someone was speaking la Langue.
Jean-Claude hurried toward the sound, hoping to catch some diplomat or a member of Isabelle’s Célestial entourage. Instead, he turned into a sitting room and all but barreled into Hugo du Blain coming the other direction. The ambassador was dressed all in traditional Célestial white with a bloodred shadow fanned out on the floor behind him, as gaudy as a peacock’s tail.
Jean-Claude made a hasty bow. “Your Excellency,” he said with all the humility his sweeping hat brim could scrape up off the carpet.
The man backed up a step in surprise, and his bloodshadow rippled. A small crowd of finely dressed people in the room beyond all paused their conversations to watch this encounter.
“Monsieur musketeer,” du Blain said in a sour tone. “I am surprised to see you here.”
“Did you think me dead or fled?” Jean-Claude said. “No, just give me the odds and tell me where I can place a wager. Better yet, come with me, and I will give you such news as flummoxes all expectations.”
As Jean-Claude swept his hat up to replace it on his head, he curled his pinky under the brim, exposing his three other fingers like the tines of the crown, the court sign for royal business.
The ambassador stepped from the room and allowed Jean-Claude to shut the door before speaking in a low tone. “And what makes you think His Most Royal Majesty wants to hear anything you have to say, after the bungle you have made of your duties?”
Jean-Claude had to take that one on the chin; he had no doubt le roi was furious with him. Indeed, Jean-Claude would be lucky to escape a royal audience with his life, his shadow, or his soul. Yet no matter his own future, the fate of kingdoms weighed in the balance, and Isabelle’s future with it.
“Do not mistake the messenger for the message,” Jean-Claude said. “Grand Leon will want to hear what I have to say.”
“Certainly, but it will have to wait until after Príncipe Alejandro’s trial. Not that it will be an extended affair. He was caught bloody-handed after murdering his father. I imagine the Sacred Hundred will find him guilty in short order.”
Jean-Claude’s pulse galloped. “This cannot wait. Besides which, Alejandro is innocent.”
Du Blain shook his head. “But this is the outcome His Majesty wants.”
“No, this is the best outcome His Majesty thinks he can get,” Jean-Claude said. “I can offer him a better one, but only if we act quickly.”
Du Blain asked, “What is this news, then?”
For this Jean-Claude was prepared. “I report to him, from my lips to his ears. Whether he wants to hear what I have to say is for him to decide.”
Reluctantly, du Blain conceded this. He led Jean-Claude to a waiting room and then shoved off to inform His Imperial Majesty of his petitioner.
Jean-Claude reflexively straightened his borrowed tunic. Dread churned his gut. Would Grand Leon even come? Surely he would want to hear what Jean-Claude had to say, unless he felt that the report of one who had bungled so badly was not worth hearing.
A reddening of the ambient light drew Jean-Claude’s attention. The room’s ordinary shadows rippled and parted as a great crimson shadow spilled through the doorway, spreading along the walls, ceiling, and floor, oozing into recesses and flowing over furniture, tinting everything the color of fresh blood.
The crimson stain brushed up against Jean-Claude’s shadow. It tugged at his outline on the floor, pulling it into new shape. Like a marionette guided by some godlike puppeteer, Jean-Claude’s body twitched to attention and stuck there despite the pain it caused in his thigh.
Grand Leon’s sorcerous puissance was undiminished even when he was inhabiting several different vessels at once. And this one’s not even in the room yet. He can’t even see me.
For a dozen heartbeats, Jean-Claude contemplated his helplessness and how far Grand Leon’s anger must have extended that he had seen fit to drive this point home. Would he even give Jean-Claude a chance to explain about Isabelle’s survival, to make his case for thwarting Margareta, or would this shadow simply rip his mind and soul to pieces? It would be Grand Leon’s style to turn Jean-Claude into a bloodhollow as a warning to other privileged servants who might fail him.
Grand Leon’s emissary strolled into the room, his skinny frame and wraithlike flesh swollen with Grand Leon’s unmistakable presence. The crimson shadows grew heavier and thicker as he approached, taking on an oily sheen that obscured the distinctive shapes of the furniture and gave the whole room the aspect of a great mouth wherein the emissary was a pale, white tongue.
Jean-Claude needed to get his main point out before Grand Leon started harrowing his soul, so he blurted, “Princess Isabelle is alive, and I have located her.”
Grand Leon did not appear to hear Jean-Claude’s announcement. He walked almost past Jean-Claude, so that, with his head clamped in a forward-facing position, he could only glimpse the side of the king’s face, enough to know that Grand Leon was not looking at him.
Grand Leon’s voice was casual but cold. “Those are good tidings, but how, pray tell, did you lose her to begin with?”
Jean-Claude had been kicking himself with that very question for the last several days, always without an answer to satisfy his heart. Somehow, it was easier to defend himself to le roi. “By treachery and betrayal. Kantelvar assassinated Vincent, tried to murder me, and stole her away.”
Grand Leon walked to a point directly behind Jean-Claude. The bloodshadow deadened his footfalls to mere ghostly whispers. He stopped and held his silence for long enough that Jean-Claude’s shoulder blades started twitching with anticipation of a knife … not that Grand Leon would ever resort to such crude murder. Clearly this display was meant to frighten Jean-Claude and put him in his place. It was working.
If anyone else had done this to him, he would have been furious, but Grand Leon had made him, had given him everything, including his duty to Isabelle. If anyone had the right to judge him … “Kantelvar arranged this marriage,” Grand Leon said. “Why would he sabotage it?”