There were only two manners by which to enter a noble’s court if one wanted a sympathetic audience. The first was to be immaculate, polished, groomed up like a show horse, and dressed in clothes that were good for nothing but standing around. Then one could spend hours making small talk, gently stirring the simmering cauldron of noble favor, hoping for a sip … Or one could barge in looking like a messenger from the front, the sort of man who would have nothing less important to say than “The barbarians are at the gate!”
It was traditional for the grubby messenger to die after delivering his message, and Jean-Claude reasoned he was not likely to disappoint on that score. Grand Leon would be furious with him. After what he planned, Jean-Claude would be lucky indeed merely to end up a bloodhollow, but if that was what it took to give Isabelle a chance at a world worth living in … certainly men had suffered more for less.
He wondered if the shackle-rattling torturers of the damned would, upon admitting his soul to the Halls of Torment, at least give him points for style.
Jean-Claude hobbled into a corridor adjacent to the Hall of Mirrors. Five guards barred his way. They wore the royal family’s crimson-and-black livery. No doubt they had orders to kill Jean-Claude on sight, albeit with the significant disadvantage that they didn’t know what he looked like, especially not out of uniform and covered in blood and muck.
The guards caught sight of him and hefted their weapons.
Smiling inside, Jean-Claude staggered toward his audience, waving his hands frantically. “Se?ors, help! Help, someone is trying to kill Queen Margareta!”
CHAPTER
Twenty-two
Isabelle sent Gretl to fetch food and find out what the other denizens of this aerie were up to. Gretl did not seem to think that any of them would be disappointed by their master’s defeat, but it would be foolish not to inquire.
Alone, Isabelle limped around the circumference of the cistern-room pool to keep her bruised and battered body from seizing up. Her mind insisted on parading for her every foolish thing she’d done since meeting Kantelvar. She revisited every missed clue, every double meaning and disconnected reference, every way she could have averted this predicament if only she hadn’t been blinded by her desire to help Marie and her hope to please her ersatz in-laws. If only she had been paying closer attention. “If only” was the worst phrase in any language.
It was all out of her hands now, the fate of her chosen family, the peace of the world.
She nearly jumped out of her skin when Julio twitched and sat up with a gasp.
“Isabelle,” he said.
She hurried toward him, thankful he was alive. “What news? Are you hurt? What’s going on in San Augustus? Did you bring a ship?” Surely he hadn’t had time to fetch a ship, but then again, her personal sense of time was all out of joint. It might have been but an instant since he left her, or it might have been a century.
“There is a ship on the way, but we have no time for it. Your musketeer tells me Margareta has put Alejandro on trial for murdering Father.”
“Jean-Claude! He’s alive! Is he whole?” Thank the Builder and all the saints. Excitement brought energy to her limbs, and drove her aches and pains behind the curtain.
“He was when I left, but listen, the … things are even worse than I … than we feared. Fighting has already broken out in San Augustus. The city is on fire and Alejandro may be slain within the hour.”
Isabelle’s hand flew to her throat. Only too well could she imagine that magnificent city in flames, and what had become of Marie? “Wait. How is Alejandro to be slain? He wasn’t even in the city.”
“Apparently he was. How I don’t know, but Margareta has him and she claims he was caught bloody-handed murdering the king in his sleep. She has put him on trial for regicide.”
Isabelle knew almost nothing of Alejandro. “Is that possible?”
“Never!” Julio said with such vehemence that Isabelle recoiled from him. “Alejandro worshipped Father.”
“What about Xaviera?” The crown princesa had seemed competent and commanding, certainly not the type to sit idly by while her kingdom fell apart.
Julio’s fists clenched in agitation. “Margareta captured her and put her into the Hellshard. It will tear her soul to shreds.”
“How long can she last?” Were they already too late? She would not see that proud woman destroyed.
“It depends on the individual. Xaviera is strong but the Hellshard is old magic, quondam sorcery beyond our ken.”
“Can we save her?” Isabelle asked. Not a fair question, since she was stuck here. He’d be doing all the work and taking all the risk.
“Possibly,” he said, fixing her with his silver gaze. “I have a plan, but ‘risky’ is too kind a word for it, and I have to take you with me.”
Isabelle’s heart lurched. “You said you couldn’t…”
Julio scratched his scar in nervous habit. “I said I wasn’t willing to risk it, but now I have no choice. A charge against a high noble can only be adjudicated by a congress of the Sacred Hundred. Margareta has gathered all who would come in the Hall of Mirrors. It is likely that many of Alejandro’s supporters refused the summons for fear of being trapped by Margareta’s forces, so the jury will be heavily weighted in her favor. Even so, I don’t think she intends to let the matter get to a vote. Using Xaviera as leverage, she’ll force Alejandro to confess to murdering Father and then have him executed.
“This means that most of the Sacred Hundred will all be in one place. Margareta will be there and so will Clìmacio. I intend to present the Sacred Hundred with a choice of Julios. For once, Kantelvar may have done us a favor. There’s no way of knowing which story he told to which noble about me and Clìmacio. Likely there are a dozen variations floating around by now. Even Clìmacio’s supporters must balk at the possibility of supporting a changeling. If I can divide them enough we might be able to suggest Alejandro as an alternative.”
“Even if he’s accused of regicide?”
“Accused by Margareta, whose word will be suspect, especially if we can free Xaviera. Being put in the Hellshard is a punishment no noble is supposed to endure without trial.”
Isabelle’s mind whirled and she was acutely aware just how little she really understood of Aragoth’s underlying politics, the inner patterns of its people’s minds. “Will that work?”
“It’s the best idea I have. There are too many players, too many moves to even think about controlling all outcomes. The only thing we can do is rip away as much of Margareta’s support as possible and pounce on any opportunity that arises.”
Isabelle’s brows furrowed. “So how do I fit into this?
“I need you to deliver me to the court. I met your musketeer in San Augustus. He plans to storm the Hall of Mirrors and make an opening for us. He intends to announce your arrival and send out an honor guard to escort you into the Hall of Mirrors and sneak me in as part of your retinue.”
To her surprise, Isabelle felt as if a weight had been lifted from her chest. It had to be madness, but she preferred to risk all than be left behind, forced to wait and worry. She squared her shoulders and matched his gaze. “Then let us go.”