Why indeed? Jean-Claude still didn’t know why the damned artifex had set up this game of knives and shadows.
Jean-Claude said, “His plans were deeply laid, Your Majesty. They began at least twenty-four years ago, because they were already in motion at the hour of Princess Isabelle’s birth…”
Jean-Claude told him everything he knew or suspected of Kantelvar’s plan, Vincent’s killing, Margareta’s plot, Príncipe Julio’s and DuJournal’s identities, Don Amerigo’s assistance, and Duque Diego’s murder. Grand Leon interrupted only to ask for clarification of key points.
“And that is how I came to be here,” Jean-Claude concluded.
“Interesting,” Grand Leon said, and, to Jean-Claude’s surprise, the red shadow withdrew. It shrank to a small puddle around le roi’s feet. “You have been a very busy man indeed. You have learned more about Aragothic intrigue in a week than my most diligent ambassador has told me in a year. Face me.”
Jean-Claude turned in place. His leg pained him and he was still woozy from his encounter with the bloodshadow, but he managed not to fall flat on his face when he made a leg and swept his hat for his master.
“Majesty.”
The king’s presence, pressing through the emissary’s glassy face, was thoughtful. “You failed to protect Princess Isabelle, as was your sworn duty.”
Every time someone reminded him of that, it was like having a knife twisted in his ribs. “Yes, Majesty.”
Grand Leon said, “But your remarkable persistence in trying to rectify your error has extracted an ember of opportunity from the ashes of catastrophe. The only question is whether I dare trust you to fetch that spark without snuffing it.”
Jean-Claude heard the question in that statement and rose to answer it. “That depends on whether Your Majesty questions my competence or my loyalty.”
Le roi nodded gravely. “No disloyal man would have dared face us, and we deem that your skills are merely tarnished, not rusted through. A good polish should have them sparkling like new again.”
In other words, if he got this right, he would be forgiven. “Shall I carry on then, Majesty?”
Le roi nodded gravely. “Get yourself to the dockyard. When the ship bearing Isabelle and the real Príncipe Julio returns, take them to our embassy and to no other place. Make sure they are not seen.”
“Of course,” Jean-Claude said, his mind bolting to the mission before considering all the ramifications. “But what about Margareta and Príncipe Alejandro?”
“Alejandro was found standing over King Carlemmo’s body. He appears guilty, or at least blamable. He will be found guilty regardless of the truth. Fortunately, this injustice may be put to good use. His legal assassination at Margareta’s hand clears the way for Isabelle to be the next queen of Aragoth.”
The sickness of betrayal settled in Jean-Claude’s heart. Alejandro had saved Jean-Claude’s life at least twice. To abandon him without a fight was poor recompense, but Jean-Claude could not force the Grand Leon to act on Alejandro’s behalf, and he was in no position to ask for a favor, especially when the fate of empires was on the line.
A distant mortar boomed. Plaster dust from the ceiling drifted down.
Jean-Claude bowed, took three steps back, but couldn’t bring himself to leave just yet. “Majesty, in the interest of clarity, Isabelle told me you wanted her to prevent a war.”
“Alejandro’s death should prevent the outbreak of a general war. Who, after all, would his supporters put on the throne? Isabelle’s marriage to the heir will help secure that peace.”
“And how do you intend to circumvent Margareta?” Surely Grand Leon wanted Isabelle to be the primary woman behind the throne.
The king’s phantom brows drew down very slightly. “If she becomes a threat, surely Princess Isabelle’s most loyal guardian can remove her.”
“Of course, Majesty.” Jean-Claude made a humble obeisance in self-defense and took himself out of the drawing room–cum–audience hall before Grand Leon’s infamous temper roiled up. His mind buzzed with the implications of Grand Leon’s plan. Alejandro would have to die. Clìmacio would have to be exposed and Julio put in his place … wouldn’t he?
Jean-Claude stopped, as stunned as if he’d been shot, as the king’s plan unfolded itself in his mind. Merde! Grand Leon intended to keep Clìmacio on the throne. He would kidnap the real Julio and use the threat of revealing him as leverage against the false king. In one swift move he would make himself the power behind the throne in Aragoth.
Jean-Claude would have laughed out loud. He would have marveled at the sinister beauty of it … except that le roi clearly meant to use Isabelle as the public face of his private conquest, the linchpin for his ambition. The stage on which her life played out would literally be wiped clean of every decent soul, of anyone Isabelle might befriend or trust. Her marriage would be based on blackmail. Her decisions would all be hostage to the necessity of maintaining her grip on people who would stop at nothing to turn the tables on her.
Jean-Claude resumed his march, falling into the familiar rhythm of the mission even as his mind boiled with dread. Did Grand Leon actually imagine he could control Margareta’s power lust? The blackmail le roi proposed, or rather that Jean-Claude deduced, would drive her frothing mad, and the easiest way for her to strike back would be through Isabelle.
Jean-Claude’s heart felt as if it were being torn in two. He could not let this pass, and yet he could not betray his master, either. Le roi had lifted him up from peasant stock and given him such authority and status as to confound the high and mighty. True, authority had turned out to be more of a mixed blessing than he’d anticipated, but he had ever been proud to don his blue-and-whites and thwart threats to l’Empire in Grand Leon’s name.
So would he fail his princess or his king? Did he have a choice? It wasn’t as if he would refuse to fetch Isabelle from the docks. Perhaps Julio could be killed while attempting to escape, but that would still leave Isabelle marrying Clìmacio.
“Se?or musketeer,” came a voice from behind him.
Jean-Claude turned. There in the servants’ corridor stood Thornscar, Príncipe Julio marked by a long scar that ran from brow to cheek. Even without the scar there would have been no way to mistake this man for the cringing creature that clung like a stain to Margareta’s skirt. His erect posture and squared shoulders made a kingly tabard of his ripped and bloody monk’s habit, and his silver eyes gleamed like the edge of a blade.
“Príncipe Julio, I deduce,” Jean-Claude said, even as his mind lifted into a gallop. If Julio was here … “Where is Princess Isabelle?”
“Safe for now, on a reef in the upper sky four days’ sail from here. She bids me give a message to her faithful musketeer, Jean-Claude. She says she is safe, sound, secure, and several synonyms starting with ‘S.’”
“What?” Jean-Claude stiffened to hear Isabelle’s private speech uttered from Julio’s lips.