“Which means you are guilty,” Jean-Claude said. He doubted a creature like Guillaume was actually capable of love, and the malfeasant Arnette was not a woman to inspire devotion, but there was some loyalty in Guillaume’s heart, and was that not a virtue? And was it not a sin to pervert a virtue into a weapon? Isabelle would not be proud of him for this, or for many other deeds. His only solace was that she need never know of the bones he had broken in her service.
Jean-Claude summoned his coolest demeanor. “Your wife is of du Troisville, and the Duc du Troisville has extensive trading interests in Aragoth. Someone in Aragoth asked her father to instruct her to put that mirror aboard ship. I believe I shall have to ask her who that was. I imagine le roi will not be pleased with the answer. Perhaps he will put her to the flame and attaint the whole line.”
“Because of a mirror? Madness!”
“Not because of the mirror itself, but because of the Glasswalker assassin who came through it and tried to murder Isabelle.”
Guillaume’s face went waxy in the failing light. “No!” he said; defeat this time, not denial.
“Fortunately for you, you will probably be able to deny knowledge and escape fatal punishment, though it may cause le roi to reconsider the distribution of your father’s estates upon his death. He wouldn’t want them falling into the hands of a man who couldn’t even prevent his wife from committing treason.”
“It wasn’t treason. It was supposed to be a gift. She didn’t know!” Guillaume blurted. Three lies in a row, Jean-Claude suspected, and if finding out who Isabelle’s Aragothic enemies were weren’t so important, Jean-Claude would have nailed Guillaume to a wall for his part in the scheme. Alas, mortal justice was as imperfect as divine justice was ineffable.
“Then give me the name of the Aragoth who made this request. Speak truth and your wretched wife will never lay eyes on me. Lie to me and there is no place in the deep sky you will be able to run from me.”
“But … How do I know you’ll keep your word?”
Jean-Claude made a mirthless smile and bent the skin of Guillaume’s throat with the tip of his rapier. “You’ll just have to trust me.”
CHAPTER
Eight
Isabelle stood in the Santa Anna’s hold, beneath a single swaying alchemical lantern that made her shadow weave drunkenly across the narrow space. Vincent, two guards, and one handmaid hovered in attendance while she examined Thornscar’s empty mirror frame. The shattered glass had all been swept away and disposed of with elaborate ceremonies meant to ward off bad luck, but the empty frame had been left in place and secured with its original rope and canvas veil.
“So, except for the mirror being gone, that’s what it looked like when Thornscar was passing through it?” she asked Vincent.
“Not precisely. The fabric was pushed aside.”
Isabelle grabbed the fabric and tugged it to the side. This took effort because of the way the ropes crisscrossed the frame. She circled the frame and looked through it from the back.
“What is the significance of this inquiry?” Vincent asked.
Isabelle brought two fingers down on the rope with a chopping motion. “Why didn’t he cut the rope? It would have been easier than fighting with the canvas.”
“Perhaps he was only half emerged from the mirror and couldn’t get at his blade,” Vincent suggested.
“Did he have a blade?” Isabelle asked. “Did you see one? Marie did not.” As it turned out Marie had seen the invader as he rushed up the stair. He’d shoved her into the storeroom and slammed the door on her. Very strange behavior for an assassin.
Vincent frowned. “He was already most of the way through the mirror when I got here, and the light was bad, worse than it is now.”
“But you didn’t see a blade?”
“No, I did not,” he admitted grudgingly.
“And he clubbed Kantelvar rather than stabbing him.”
“So it would seem, but why is this important?”
“Because I find it hard to imagine a man intent on murdering a well-defended woman on a ship full of well-armed marines would make his bid without so much as a knife. Even I have a knife.” She tapped the maidenblade on her belt. Isabelle despised the weapon’s loathsome official purpose but kept the blade and used it to cut canvases for painting and to core apples.
Isabelle asked, “And after he squeezed out of the mirror, what did he do?”
“He went looking for you. He didn’t find you in your cabin, so he went next door to the chart room and tried to set the ship on fire using the orrery, but Kantelvar interrupted him. He subdued Kantelvar, ignited the orrery, and came back down here, where he was cornered and hopefully killed.”
Isabelle folded her arms and drummed her fingers against her upper arm. “Your analysis matches the facts.”
“But you do not agree with it,” Vincent surmised.
“Why did he go above looking for me?” She gestured to the hold around her. “Here we have wooden crates, bales of fine des Zephyrs wool, ingredients for a magnificent fire. Why not just step out of the mirror, set the hold on fire, and then step back out again? Much simpler, safer for him, and more likely to work.”
“There are five ships in this fleet,” Vincent said. “He probably wanted to ascertain for certain that you were on this one. If he just set the ship on fire, he’d have had no way of knowing if he’d actually gotten you, especially since the first thing anyone would do in case of a fire would be to get you on a launch. Or, perhaps, it was meant to be personal. He wanted to kill you himself as a proxy for the royal family. In either case, he couldn’t find you, and his time grew short, so he improvised with the closest tool to hand.”
Isabelle suppressed a shudder at this dire idea. If she were the type to take afternoon naps instead of badgering the captain to show her the inner marvels of his ship, she might have been in that room—
“Highness!” called a cabin boy from the far end of the hold. “Don Divelo and the musketeer have returned! They are safe. They’re being ferried over from the Lanza.”
A knot of tension eased from Isabelle’s heart. Thank the Builder Jean-Claude was safe. She could never tell him how much she worried about him. To be afraid for a brave man was an insult to his abilities that could cripple his heart.
*
Isabelle, Vincent, Santiago’s whole command crew, and the captains of the remaining escort ships crowded into the reserve officers’ cabin to hear what Jean-Claude and Don Divelo had to report. The press of bodies warmed the room and woke the unwashed smells that clung to nearly everyone, but even that stink would not have prevented Isabelle from rushing up to hug Jean-Claude. Alas, the propriety of the audience forbade any physical reassurance of his well-being.
Jean-Claude doffed his plumed hat, eyed it speculatively, then bowed toward Isabelle and the head of the table. “Greetings, Highness, Captain. Please tell me you have some wine.”
“I imagine you are quite parched,” Santiago said, and a goblet of wine was delivered into Jean-Claude’s hands.
Jean-Claude took a mouthful, then wiped his mouth on his sleeve. “Gah! Someone might have mentioned that mirror passage tastes like tomatoes boiled in ammonia.”
“It takes different people in different ways,” Don Divelo said, sounding anything but displeased. “Some believe that the experience reflects the traveler’s character.”