“Yes. Xaviera is arranging it now.”
Jean-Claude took note of the informal use of the princesa’s name, a liberty he took with no other noble except Julio. “I can only assume that her interest is primarily in seeing the imposter exposed.”
“Hmmm. Yes. I suppose it must be. At the moment, though, she has more immediate worries. King Carlemmo did not wake up this morning. He still breathes, she says, but she fears his spirit has already left him.”
“Damn.” Jean-Claude’s guts coiled nervously. “Why have I not heard this before?”
“Margareta is keeping it hushed while she moves her forces into position for the coup. Her enemies have already been warned and are making countermoves. It’s only a matter of time now before someone decides that shooting first is better than being shot.”
They reached an intersection where the dust on the floor had been disturbed by the passage of several sets of feet. It was impossible to say just how long the footprints had been there. So dead was the air that the dusty plume of Jean-Claude’s passing hung in space behind him, as persistent and obfuscating as a bad rumor.
Jean-Claude grunted and squatted down by the tracks, briefly wondering if his creaky old knees would allow him to get up again. He made out four sets of tracks, one male, two female, one too large to be human.
DuJournal made a hissing noise through his teeth and looked around nervously. “That’s an omnimaton.”
“I thought they were all destroyed in the cataclysm.”
“The Temple has rebuilt a few, and if there’s one loose in the corridors then we are in grave danger. Any one of them is worth a whole platoon of soldiers.”
“What would I do without good news like that?” Jean-Claude grumbled. He pointed to the tracks. “Looks like they came from that way.”
“That’s the direction of the old Temple.”
“Carefully then.” Jean-Claude readied his pistol and cursed the need for his cane. DuJournal shifted his lantern to his off hand and drew his sword, and Jean-Claude noted the maker’s mark just below the quillons. That weapon came from one of the most renowned sword makers in Aragoth. Jean-Claude almost sighed as the pieces of one mystery lined themselves up neatly on the game board of his mind: victory in two moves, though this was not the opportune moment to push his pawns.
A brace of fears yoked Jean-Claude’s heart as they skulked down the hallway, listening for some sound more ominous than their own breathing and muffled footsteps. First, that some trap would snap them up unawares before they reached Kantelvar’s hole; second, that they would find the hole empty and all trace of Isabelle lost. The foot tracks and the column of dust that followed them like a parade of stealthy soldiers suggested that this place was forgotten, but surely if Kantelvar had intended to hide down here, he would have found some way to obliterate these footprints.
At last they reached a locked side door through which all of their quarry had passed.
“This is the place I remember,” DuJournal whispered. “There should be a stairway beyond this. I know not what awaits us at the bottom.”
Jean-Claude’s doubts grew. Surely Kantelvar would not leave any place important unguarded. So either there was a guard he could not see, or this place was not important. Even so, it must needs be checked. Jean-Claude put away his pistol and drew his knife, sliding it into the crack between door and jamb. The lock was new, but the door was old and the gap quite roomy. While he worked at prizing the bolt out of its hole, he said, “The question is, what do you hope to find? It occurs to me that it is in Príncipe Alejandro’s interest to see the false prince unmasked—and I don’t mind being the cat’s-paw for that—but it does not serve him to see either the real Julio or Isabelle recovered.”
DuJournal took his time answering. “Aragoth gains nothing from Princess Isabelle’s death. In fact, returning her intact to l’Empire Céleste would be to Alejandro’s great political advantage, and I would gladly help you with that.”
“Which leaves only Julio,” Jean-Claude said. “As much as Alejandro would like him out of the succession debate, having him missing would only serve to destabilize his rule. Missing heirs and heroes give the opposition a figurehead around which to rally. The fact that this figurehead is insubstantial only works to their advantage, for that which is not corporeal cannot be destroyed. It therefore behooves Alejandro to wish Julio’s corpse to be discovered, conveniently murdered by Kantelvar before he could be rescued. That leaves only one contender for the throne.”
DuJournal fidgeted with his sword. “Better that Julio should be rescued, I think, and held at least for a time. Once the imposter is exposed, and Artifex Kantelvar is implicated, support for Julio’s marriage to Princesa Isabelle will evaporate and Queen Margareta’s faction will collapse.”
Jean-Claude twisted his knife one last time. The bolt popped out and the door glided open on well-oiled hinges. Beyond, a spiral stairway corkscrewed down into darkness. There was no dust on the floor here, but a breath of cool, damp air brushed his face. No sounds of habitation rose from those depths. The place felt abandoned.
Jean-Claude ushered DuJournal forward and waited until the man swung his foot out over the decline. “I defer to your judgment on Julio; he’s your brother, after all.”
It is not quite possible to spin in place while walking forward down a winding stair, but the man who styled himself Lord DuJournal tried it anyway. He might have tipped backward and tumbled down the stairs had not Jean-Claude seized him by the doublet and pulled him back onto the landing.
“Príncipe Alejandro, I presume.”
The man’s eyes narrowed, but all he said was, “How did you know?”
“I probably would not have suspected anything, except that I have met the real DuJournal, and you look nothing alike. After that, it was just a matter of summing up the peculiarities. You work for Xaviera, but she does things for you, and you speak her name with tender familiarity. You know this place like someone who has lived here all your life. Your sword is of the finest maker in all Aragoth, and so on and so forth.”
“And, just now, if I had spoken against Princesa Isabelle—”
“You would be at the bottom of these stairs. For what it’s worth, I much prefer this outcome.”
“As do I,” Alejandro said dryly. “But how do we proceed?”
“As before,” Jean-Claude said.
“But why reveal that you know my secret, if not to blackmail me?”