Jean-Claude said, “I’ll warrant he wants to drag l’Empire Céleste into the imbroglio everyone is sure must happen when Carlemmo dies.”
Diego made a derisive sound and looked to a map displayed on the wall. “L’Empire’s troops have been massing along our borders for months. I think they require no encouragement.”
Jean-Claude said, “Right now, Grand Leon is ‘allowing’ his barons to occupy the frontier. That means they’re all doing it at their own expense, bleeding money by the day. He was counting on Isabelle to broker a peace between Julio and Alejandro, so that he will not have cause to unleash them. If there is no war, he can recall them back to their own territories, much poorer for their ambitions, much easier to control. But news of Isabelle’s death adds injury to insult and must be avenged. If you want to stop that from happening, we need to find Isabelle.”
Diego rubbed the back of his neck, clearly frustrated. “Even if both príncipes were here, I doubt their followers would accept a peace between them. Everyone is too far extended. I happen to know that at least three of my fellow duques have mortgaged their estates to arm and equip their forces. They cannot afford not to fight.”
DuJournal said, “It seems to me that, for the moment, you are a man without a faction. You can hardly be sworn to Julio if you do not know which Julio is the true príncipe. Indeed, you cannot allow either of them to take the crown.”
“Si,” Diego said. “And that is one reason I am grateful to see you, Lord DuJournal. You are Xaviera’s man.” He paused, staring into space as if searching the horizon for some sign of cavalry riding to his rescue. When no promising dust clouds were forthcoming, he snapped his finger and a servant entered carrying a silver platter on which lay a small, tightly rolled scroll wrapped in a black ribbon. Diego lifted the scroll and presented it ceremoniously to DuJournal. “If you will please bear this to Princesa Xaviera.”
“From your hand to hers,” DuJournal said.
“And what is it?” Jean-Claude asked.
“A declaration of submission,” Diego said. “Without precondition. I place myself at her husband’s service and at his mercy. Julio must not be allowed on the throne, not while any doubt lingers as to his legitimacy.”
“I shall go at once,” DuJournal said.
“Go carefully. Margareta and her subordinates are utterly committed to victory. She must either put her puppet príncipe on the throne or face the Hellshard.”
DuJournal said, “Then we’ll just have to present them with duplicate Julios; then they’ll face the same dilemma you do. They won’t dare back either of them. It will be easier for Alejandro to offer them amnesty if they turn on Margareta.”
“I doubt it will be that neat,” Diego said, “but a quick war is better than a prolonged war, and this gives Aragoth a better chance than the alternative. What I still don’t understand, though, is how Kantelvar thinks to profit.”
“I don’t know, but there’s one person left who might.” Jean-Claude turned his attention to DuJournal. “When you deliver that petition to Xaviera, ask if she can arrange an audience for me with her brother-in-law, the one with the wooden leg.”
“What makes you think he’ll expose himself to you?” Diego asked. “I questioned him extensively, and he survived every question I put to him. It makes me doubt I chose the right príncipe.”
“I have leverage; you don’t,” Jean-Claude replied. Or at least he could pretend he did. To DuJournal he said, “Have Xaviera tell Julio that I have a message from l’Empire Céleste. Imply that it is an official message, too delicate to be routed through the ordinary channels.”
DuJournal nodded. “That can be arranged.”
DuJournal took his leave and Jean-Claude returned his attention to Diego. “I have one more question. Where was your man’s corpus when his espejismo contacted you? Surely you tried to follow him back to his point of origin, or at least asked where he was being held prisoner.” Wherever Thornscar had been kept was likely where Isabelle had been taken.
“He did not know. He had been rendered unconscious when he was taken there, and the place had no windows. He said it was somewhere very cold, and I believe him, for his espejismo’s breath steamed in the air. I tried to follow him, naturally, and he tried to lead me, but the portal at the other end … I have never witnessed anything like it. He said he had managed to cast his espejismo through his reflection in water. That is an art that has long been lost to us, but after what I witnessed, I believe him, at least about that. One moment, he was there in the Argentwash, and the next, gone. He did not pass into any speculum loci I could detect, though I searched for hours. It was as if he had vanished into mist.”
Jean-Claude swore under his breath. Someplace cold and windowless could be anywhere: a mountaintop cave, an icehouse cellar, a skyland in the upper air. Isabelle could be lost forever, gone like an exhalation, completely beyond recovery.
He could not think like that. There was still too much work to do. “By your leave, I have another errand to run.”
Diego looked puzzled. “Aren’t you going to wait for DuJournal to return?”
“No, but I would be much obliged if you would let him know to find me in the royal infirmary.”
“Are you injured?”
“Only my pride and vanity for having been so blinded for so long. Yet, if I am to confront the false príncipe, it behooves me to first find out who he is.”
*
Jean-Claude limped into the palace infirmary, where a few of Isabelle’s household staff still convalesced. Despite a long wall of open windows, the whole room stank of ruined meat, bile, pus, soap, and stinging tonics.
If Diego’s tale was true, somebody had been impersonating Julio for months, and so effectively that Diego doubted his own judgment as to who was who. The circle of people who knew the príncipe well enough to mimic him that convincingly had to be tiny, and Jean-Claude thought he knew someone who might be able to winnow the list down even further.
Adel sat, doubled over, on a padded bench, coughing dark flecks of blood into a white cloth. Her swarthy face had gone pale as soured milk, and her flesh seemed to have shrunk around her bones. Her plight sent an ache through Jean-Claude’s soul. She was good and kind, and he hated having been suspicious of her even in the course of his solemn duty.
Jean-Claude eased himself down beside her. “Mademoiselle.”
Adel turned a rheumy gaze on him and a brief flash of happiness darted across her face. Her voice came as a hoarse whisper. “Jean-Claude, what are you doing here?”