“Are you sure? Once we step into that mirror there is no coming back. If we do not defeat Margareta, we will die. If you stay, I imagine you will be spared. You are too valuable as a diplomatic—”
“No,” Isabelle said, quietly but firmly. “I am no one’s bargaining chip. No one’s pawn. I will not stand idle while evil rises and corruption spreads. I will not retire to survive into a damnation that my effort and sacrifice might have prevented. If Jean-Claude is giving us a breach, we must charge into it, forlorn hope though it be, or do you think I will wilt in the heat of battle?”
Julio’s mouth crooked up in a smile. “I may be a fool, Highness, but I am not blind. Still, I would not drag you into danger unawares.”
“And would you think less of me if I stayed behind?”
The question caught Julio off guard. “Of course not.”
Isabelle shook her head sadly. “Then you still think less of me than you should. When we walk into the Hall of Mirrors you must trust me as you would a battle brother.”
Julio bristled but then let it go slowly. He extended a hand to her, his left hand. She extended her own and he clasped her around the forearm. “Trust.”
“Trust,” Isabelle said, and squeezed his arm firmly. “Your plan is as sound as it can be, I think, but we must not make Margareta fight to the death. As the Codex Strategia says, never put your enemies on deadly ground. We must give Margareta a line of retreat, an offer of mercy.”
“After everything she has done?” Julio’s outrage nearly cracked his voice.
“Yes,” Isabelle said. “If she had not conspired with Kantelvar, you would never have been a príncipe, nor my betrothed, nor a hundred other good things sprinkled in amongst the bad. She must be cast out of power, surely, exiled somewhere she can do no harm, but it will do Aragoth no good if she burns it to the ground to save her skin. Just think of all the accusations she dare not lay if she still has something left to lose, all of those wrongdoings which ultimately implicate her.”
Julio growled. “I concede your point, but what line of retreat can we give her?”
Isabelle gestured to Kantelvar’s pickled head. “We make it all his fault. His idea, his manipulation, his machinations forcing her into sedition rather than her galloping there of her own free will.”
After a moment’s agonized calculation, Julio said, “That could work.” He squeezed Isabelle’s shoulders gently as if to reassure himself she was real, then released her and picked up the cask. “We’ll take this as evidence, or rather as a trophy of your victory. It will be much more interesting than anything Margareta has to say, and while theater may not quite be everything in the high court, it can certainly shift the balance of opinion.”
“Theater,” Isabelle said, her mind churning. “Yes. There’s one more actor here, Clìmacio, and we must assign him a part. He will be your long-lost twin brother.”
“Have you lost your mind?” Julio asked.
“Is he not also Carlemmo’s son?” Isabelle asked.
“He’s been pretending to be me,” Julio growled.
“He’s had no more choice in his role than either you or I, and he’s scared, which makes him dangerous. We need to offer him a way out that gives him hope, turns him against Margareta, and preserves both of your honor.”
Julio’s fists clenched and unclenched. “I don’t like it, but I have nothing better and we have no time.” He extended his free hand to Isabelle. “If your musketeer is as good as his word, there should be an honor guard awaiting us. If not, I imagine it will be a death squad.”
“What the Builder omits, Jean-Claude provides,” Isabelle said. “We could not be in better hands.”
Julio huffed and said, “And when did you ever read the Codex Strategia?”
“I borrowed my brother’s copy after he said girls couldn’t understand such things.”
Just then, Gretl returned with a heavy basket on one shoulder. Her eyes rounded when she saw Julio. She managed a curtsy and set the basket down on the crate holding the lamp hook. She gave Isabelle a quizzical look and made an eating gesture.
Isabelle’s stomach growled at her, but she said, “I’m afraid not. We have to leave right now. What about the other servants?”
Gretl made a gesture as if to round everybody up followed by a gesture of thanks.
“Well that’s a relief,” Isabelle said. “Just keep them out of here until we get back. And if we don’t come back tell them a ship is coming.” It was the best hope she could offer.
Gretl looked worried, but her posture was resolute.
Isabelle and Julio lay down by the cistern, their heads sticking out far enough that they could see their reflections.
Julio squeezed her hand and spoke with an instructor’s cadence. “This will be easier for you if you close your eyes. If you feel a tug like you’re being peeled out of your skin, let go. Once you’re on the other side, you can open your eyes, though there won’t be much for you to see. Don’t bother holding your breath because your lungs will still be here.”
Isabelle dutifully closed her eyes and in a moment felt a tug on her mind, rather like a dream on the edge of drowsing. She let herself slide into it.
*
Jean-Claude allowed himself to be towed toward the Hall of Mirrors. His spirit sniggered with the glee of the moment. Not a man amongst the guards wanted the job of bursting into an assembly of the Sacred Hundred, but neither could they afford to delay lest Jean-Claude’s warning of an imminent attack on the queen prove true. They therefore intended to throw him to the mercy of their betters.
The captain led him down a sumptuously decorated hallway, with cosmatesque floors, tapestried walls, portraits, and suits of outdated armor all lit by bright alchemical lanterns. Retainers in a stunning variety of liveries lined the walls waiting for their masters to emerge from council. Palace servants in soft slippers whisked about. Muffled voices drifted from an alcove. Jean-Claude exaggerated his limp, but he kept up his patter to distract his captors from too much thinking. “The conspirators said there would be blood on the walls.”
“It will be yours if you don’t be quiet,” growled the captain.
At the end of the hallway, two tall white doors guarded the entrance to the Hall of Mirrors. The captain had just signaled to the guards standing at attention outside them when the doors swung open. Bright light and noise spilled out, as if from the gates of Paradise.
Felix emerged, looking as peeved as ever. Jean-Claude ducked his head and tried to maneuver so that the guard captain was between himself and the queen’s champion.
Felix noted Jean-Claude’s group approaching. “Captain Ortega, what are you doing away from your post?”
Ortega obligingly stepped to the side to gesture at Jean-Claude. “Lord DuJournal here claims there is an assassination plot—”
Felix’s gaze fixed on Jean-Claude, and his eyes bulged with outrage. “You!”