“Then what do you want?”
He twirled her around to face Kantelvar, who was now deep in conference with Julio and Queen Margareta. Oh, to be a flea on one of those curs to hear that conversation.
“Have you any idea what drives yon artifex in his scheming?”
Isabelle’s heart skipped a beat, her fury arrested by the possibility that this imposter might have information she could use against Kantelvar.
“Which scheming?” she asked. Who knew how many plots the man had?
DuJournal said, “I am told that he promised Margareta her son would be king, and he also promised Príncipe Alejandro that Julio would never sit upon the throne. It is said he always keeps his promises, but I simply fail to see how two such promises can be compatible.”
“Of what concern is it to you?” Even if what he said was true—and she wasn’t about to take a fraud at his word—the idea that Kantelvar might be playing both flanks against the center was not exactly news.
“Because he made a promise to me as well in return for a favor I now regret.” His tone was stiff and somber.
“And what does it have to do with me?” Isabelle asked.
“Because you are the fuse in the powder keg with which he means to crack the world.”
Isabelle’s head felt light. Did he know of Kantelvar’s breeding program? Could he confirm his intent to conjure the Savior? “How much do you know of his plans?”
The music stopped.
DuJournal cursed under his breath and whispered, “Allow me to meet you after the ball, and I will bring you proofs of his villainy.”
He bowed and she curtsied. At the bottom of the move she whispered, “And will you tell me then who you really are?” If he agreed to meet with her after that, then she knew he was serious, or at least desperate.
His eyes narrowed but he replied, “All will be revealed.”
“Then I shall arrange it with my secretary.” The overworked Olivia, who had been saddled with the task of plotting out Isabelle’s social obligations in one-minute increments.
Isabelle danced the rest of the evening proficiently but without feeling. Her mind raced down paths of reason but kept stepping in puddles of madness and confusion. What had seemed a mere political dispute mixed up in a family tragedy had grown and transformed into something that had no name, no center. Builder, but she wanted Jean-Claude and she wanted him now. Only to him could she speak without hesitation or reservation.
At last, midnight struck, the dancing stopped, the orchestra fell silent, and the circulating servants stilled as the clock tower bells boomed. When the last echoing gong had died away, the crown herald took Isabelle’s arm and escorted her with a brace of royal trumpeters to the foot of the dais. It was time for the unmasking.
The trumpeters raised their silver clarions and blew a clear shrill blast that made Isabelle’s ears ring and chased away the weariness of the hour. Then the herald raised his voice to a penetrating yet musical pitch and announced, “His Royal Majesty el Rey de Espejos, King Carlemmo II.”
Carlemmo stood, shakily. For a moment, Isabelle feared he would not be able to stand all the way up without assistance, but his regal will would not be denied, and, with a modicum of grace, he removed his skyship mask. At the sight of their king revealed, the whole audience made obeisance, bowing and curtsying and removing masks.
Yet it was not the king’s visage that made Isabelle gasp. It was Julio’s. When her betrothed removed his wyvern mask, she could but stare in shock and dawning horror, for she had seen him once before, staring up at her from her own sketchpad aboard the Santa Anna. It was the face of the man who had tried to burn her ship from under her. Julio was Thornscar.
CHAPTER
Fourteen
It was lucky that Isabelle’s throat constricted at the sight of Julio’s face, or she might have screamed. The man who had tried to kill her had been sitting right next to her, chatting with her, lying to her.
She took a step away from him. Her lips peeled back in revulsion. This could not be right. She’d only ever seen Thornscar in a drawing by her own hand. Could she have made a mistake? No. Jean-Claude and Vincent had both confirmed the picture’s accuracy. Besides, what were the odds against so perfectly capturing someone by accident? This was the same man … except this man had no scar, no ragged welt running down the side of his face. She should have seen that sooner.
Scars could be concealed by clever makeup, or created by it. But the scar was his namesake. Would he fake that? Why not? Give yourself a nom de guerre like Thornscar and a scar is all people will look for … except he hadn’t given himself that name.
Julio gazed upon her avidly; his drunken leer magnified her loathing. She jerked her gaze away, only to have it land on Kantelvar, still flanking the dais, watching her from the green-tinged shadows of his cowl. A hot spike of anger jabbed through the web of her confusion. He was the one who had named the saboteur Thornscar. How dare he ambush her like this? Did he think she wouldn’t recognize her would-be killer?
Comprehension hit like a thunderbolt. Of course he did not expect her to recognize Julio as Thornscar. He didn’t know about the portrait. He thought she was ignorant of her attacker. But surely he must have realized that Jean-Claude would recognize the prince. Jean-Claude and Vincent. But Vincent had been killed before he ever got a look at the príncipe, and Jean-Claude had nearly died, and Kantelvar had taken the purse with the bullet, except he had found no bullet. No, he had made sure there was no bullet, so no one would doubt that the shooting had been done by a Glasswalker. He was trying to remove the witnesses, the only people he thought could discover his plan.
Isabelle was dimly aware that everyone in the ballroom was staring at her. She was still standing at the foot of the dais, in full view of the crowd, and she must have looked stunned and ready to faint. She faced the king and curtsied deeply—curtsying to a king was never the wrong thing to do—and tried to plan her next move, or her first move in a whole new game.
“Rise,” Carlemmo muttered.
Isabelle straightened, slowly, majestically, drawing out the moment like a ballet dancer. She made eye contact with King Carlemmo. “Thank you for this glorious welcome,” she said. “A celebration like this should go on forever.” She paused a beat for effect and swept the crowd with her gaze. “Or at least until dawn.”
That small, safe jest drew polite applause and resulted in a resumption of the music. Isabelle glided away from the dais, gave Olivia the word to add DuJournal to her schedule, then sought out Don Angelo, who seemed to be the king’s man and no other’s.
He beamed at her and gave a polite half bow. “Highness, how may I serve you?”