The fraud bowed himself out, and Isabelle continued receiving people whose faces she could not see and whose names she could not remember. She could not understand how some people seemed to enjoy a state of rage. Rarely had she felt more powerless. A bloodshadow might have paralyzed her body, but with uncontrolled anger her mind seized up.
As the hot iron slowly cooled, she considered the distinct possibility that the fraud might not be acting entirely on his own account. To be invited to a party like this, a lowly Célestial mathematician would have needed a sponsor to introduce him. To Julio she whispered, “Do you know who supplied DuJournal with an invitation?”
Julio said, “No, but Kantelvar might.”
“Someone other than Kantelvar.”
“Ah. Yes. Don Angelo would know, or rather his secretary would.”
Then she would have to speak to Don Angelo as swiftly as possible. By the time the last petitioner finally bowed himself away from her, Isabelle’s spine was stiff and her backside sore. She was ready for motion. At some unspoken command, the floor cleared, and the orchestra that had been providing background music for the lumbering ceremony came together for something more exciting.
To Julio, Isabelle said, “Shall we take the first dance?” It was tradition.
“Alas, I have but one left foot.” He knocked on the hollow wooden shell that filled his right boot. “It’s all I can do to get around on my cane.” He gestured to a polished walking stick that had been innocuously propped against the side of his chair all evening.
Isabelle winced at her faux pas. “My apologies.” She settled back in her seat, disappointed and relieved at the same time.
“Have no fear,” Julio said. “I shall have my second escort you.” He snapped his fingers and a polite young man appeared to lead Isabelle out on the floor. The queen, too, took a substitute partner in the form of Duque Diego. King Carlemmo slouched in his seat, hardly more than a skeleton buried in layers of purple velvet. Kantelvar clanked up and began whispering fiercely in Julio’s ear.
The music struck up. Isabelle was not the world’s best dancer but neither was she the worst, and tonight she gave the exercise her all. It was not easy to manipulate her prosthetic hand through the necessary clasps, but Julio’s second showed her to her best advantage.
Diego led Margareta around the floor as if he were directing troops in a complex drill. Their lips moved in conversation, but neither one of them was pretending to smile.
The second dance rolled around, and Isabelle had no shortage of willing partners, but she was not at all surprised when Diego cut in front of a junior member of the nobility. “Your Highness.”
“Your Grace,” she said through gritted teeth. Saints, she was not ready for this conversation, for any of this intrigue, but the moment was upon her, a duel of wits at slightly less than arm’s length.
She was actually taller than Diego, though he outweighed her considerably. She got the impression his hands could crush stone. His presence was not as expansive as Grand Leon’s, but nearly as heavy.
They exchanged only pleasantries as the dance floor filled up, but when the music began, he asked, “Who do you serve, Highness?”
He was a military thinker, Isabelle decided, and this was his first sally, not a main thrust. “I am not sure I understand the question.”
“Do you serve Aragoth or l’Empire Céleste? Whose interests do you hold dearest to your heart? Your family’s?”
Isabelle smiled sharply. It was the second time she’d had this conversation, albeit with different men for different reasons. “I serve peace.”
“The problem with peace is that it cannot defend itself.”
“That is why it has me.” She wasn’t sure precisely where these fierce words were coming from. Perhaps it was the faceless swirl of the masquerade, or perhaps it was her banked fury after the conflagration of rage, but the thrill of battle was upon her. She didn’t know if she was wrong or right, only that she must win. This must be how Jean-Claude felt all the time.
“Do you intend to defend all of Aragoth by yourself?” Diego asked.
“Of course not, but men of action must be led by men of virtue, else there is no honor, merely chaos and barbarism. If your lord and master ordered you to put away your sword, would you do it?”
“There is the tricky matter of who my master is,” Diego said.
“El Rey de Espejos,” Isabelle said.
“But when Carlemmo is dead, who will be el rey? That is the matter that must be settled.”
“And if the brothers can decide it between themselves, will you honor their decision?”
Diego did not answer until very nearly the end of the dance. His expression was closed, like a man playing thwarts in the dark, trying to picture the whole board and every possible configuration. We both are: white princess tilts with black duque.
At last he said, “It is unfortunate you could not identify the man who boarded your ship.”
Isabelle’s heart raced. Was Diego truly unaware that his operative had been named, or was he merely fishing for confirmation? Could she split the difference?
“I would know him if I saw him again,” Isabelle said.
“Truly?” Diego asked, and then danced a few more thoughtful beats. “In that case, this conversation is premature. It will be more fruitful on the morrow. My secretary shall contact yours.”
He timed his statement to the last bar of the song, giving Isabelle no choice but to curtsy and back up a step. He strode from the dance floor before she could recapture him, going where? To warn his operative perhaps? Isabelle wished she had someone to follow him. Where was Jean-Claude when she needed him?
The next dance started, and Isabelle was forced to concentrate on giving a good impression of herself to her partners and all observers. It was not long until the faux Lord Martin DuJournal slithered into her dance queue. He wore a pleasant expression, and his eyes sparkled with an inner humor that made her want to throttle him. He was laughing at the world, and most specifically at her, like a brazen thief wearing stolen jewels to the very house he had burgled.
Yet if she refused him, she gave up a chance to learn what he was about. She tamped down her bile as he took her hand and led her through the first steps of a one-partner dance.
“Have you become suddenly greedy, milord?” she asked. “An introduction and now a dance. Much loftier men have gotten much less from me.”
He said in la Langue, with the accent of a man educated in Rocher Royale, “Dire need calls for desperate measures. I have news I must present to you in person and in private.”
“You have my full attention.” And an outsized portion of her loathing; DuJournal was her creation. Did the imposter actually know that?
They stepped through a complex dip and exchange before he said, “This is not the place for such proofs as I have to present.”
“Proofs of what?” she said. “Your identity? We both know you’re not the real DuJournal.”
“If such a man even exists,” he said without breaking rhythm. “Which I am inclined to doubt. Of course, after my appearance here tonight, very few other people will be inclined to doubt it, which is a favor I grant you free of obligation.”