They reached a four-way intersection. Alejandro stopped and perforce Jean-Claude did as well. “Your point is taken, but with my father on his deathbed, I must make sure my wife is removed from the pretender’s reach, as I should have done before. Damn that leaving her in place was so useful.” The príncipe pointed down one corridor. “If you follow these footprints, they will lead you as surely as I can to wherever Kantelvar went.”
Jean-Claude scowled at the indicated path. “No doubt those tracks lead to an empty berth where a skyship once was, and I cannot walk on air. I need to visit the Naval Orrery, and I need a ship to pursue Kantelvar, and for those things I need your help, Highness. As much as it pains me not to bay and chase like a hound on the scent, I must take my own advice and turn aside to assist you.”
Alejandro accepted that with a nod and led him down a different path in the maze.
Both of them were covered in dust, gray as ghosts, by the time they emerged into the light of one of the citadel’s forecourts. Tall, straight walls gave the impression of walking through a canyon. The rain had finally quit, but the yard was still pocked with puddles. Golden light splashing off the upper third of the walls told Jean-Claude it was late afternoon. They had been down in that maze for most of the day.
Alejandro said, “We will fetch Xaviera and send a minion to tend Marie, then we’ll make our way to the orrery.”
But no sooner had they thrust their way into one of the citadel’s occupied sections, a broad hallway with glazed windows and parquetry floors, than a guardsman in royal purple livery hailed them. As it would have seemed suspicious to run away, and as Jean-Claude would have lost a footrace in any case, he merely shared a worried glance with Alejandro qua DuJournal and contrived to greet the approaching guardsman with no more than a look of mild curiosity.
“How may we help you, Sergeant?” DuJournal asked.
“Se?ors, the queen commands your presence. You are requested to accompany me.”
Jean-Claude patted his jacket, causing clouds of dust to fly up. “If you are sure Her Majesty would appreciate being exposed to us in this disheveled state.”
No hesitation. “It will not be a problem, se?ors.”
Damn. Jean-Claude had not expected to escape the audience, but the alacrity with which the guard disposed of the usual assiduously enforced niceties was alarming. They allowed themselves to be led briskly into the heart of the royal wing. Servants of various types scurried on their errands like mice with a cat on the prowl. By now the whole staff must have known of el rey’s downturn. The usual buzz of a busy household had been reduced to frantic whispers.
They came soon to the gold-inlaid outer doors of an audience chamber. A pair of guards divested them of weapons. The doors opened onto a room that was small only in comparison to the scale of the citadel. Mirrors inset in doorwaylike arches in the walls managed to make it look labyrinthine and busier than it was.
Queen Margareta, already draped in voluminous robes of mourning black, sat on a throne atop a dais. The false Príncipe Julio sat to her left. His wooden posture could not quite contain a nervous twitch in his fingers. On Margareta’s right stood a thin man with a waxed mustache and a red doublet. He had the silver eyes of a Glasswalker, but his skin was dark and mottled. A wide nose and thick lips gave the impression of a wider man pressing out from within a skinnier one. His hand rested lightly on the pommel of his sword. There were more guards than a friendly audience required, and more than a diplomatic audience would have allowed, and their postures were close and aggressive.
Jean-Claude’s pulse thudded harder. He and DuJournal were marched forward by a pair of flanking guards until they reached the foot of the dais. DuJournal bowed to Margareta, pointedly ignoring Julio, a fact which neither of them seemed inclined to protest. Jean-Claude probably should have made some obeisance, but his stiff neck was acting up. He folded his arms across his chest.
Margareta said, “Lord Martin DuJournal. You and your accomplice, the Célestial musketeer Jean-Claude, stand before us today guilty of conspiracy and treason against the crown of Aragoth.”
DuJournal looked surprised, but was it contrived or real? From his angle, Jean-Claude could not tell. His own response was muted by his expectation that something like this was going to happen. The king was dying and neither side of the succession debate was likely to pass up the chance to blame it on the other. Even if the king had been hit by lightning, some culpability would have been invented and weaponized. The only question was why Margareta had chosen this venue to make this accusation. It was a private audience, therefore not intended to make a political point, and yet if not to make a political point, why go through the motions? She could have had the both of them rounded up and thrown into prison or executed on the spot. In the chaos that was brewing, two extra corpses would hardly be noticed.
DuJournal said, “Perhaps Your Majesty would care to explain—”
“The king, my husband, is dying, and it has been discovered that your patron, Princesa Xaviera, is the murderess. She was caught red-handed this afternoon dripping vile poison into the king’s unconscious mouth. She has confessed her crime and further revealed that she was acting at the behest of her husband, who was carrying out the program himself before he was dismissed from the capital.”
DuJournal held together fairly well under this onslaught of slander and lies. “That is tragic, Majesty, but what has it to do with me?”
“You are the disgraced princesa’s agent, the go-between by which she keeps in contact with her traitorous husband.”
DuJournal huffed in disbelief. “As you said yourself, he was sent away. Furthermore he is a Glasswalker; he can contact her any time he wants.”
“But he did not leave. His ship was intercepted this morning and boarded, and he was found to be missing. The captain of the ship confessed that Príncipe Alejandro had departed the ship soon after it set sail, returning to San Augustus in direct defiance of the king’s command. He is now hiding somewhere within the city, making plans to contest my son’s rightful ascension to the throne. Xaviera confessed that she was using you to spy on the royal court for him. For that you are condemned to death.”
DuJournal said, “Your Majesty, I mislike your idea of a trial. Even a saint could not defend himself against such a nebulous allegation. What message do you think I carried and when? Where is your proof?”
Jean-Claude did his best to be invisible. As vile as Margareta’s lies were, they were a masterpiece of the form, outrageous enough to be interesting, plausible enough to be believable, grounded with facts at the periphery even while being vaporous at the center. It was almost a pity they were wasted on an audience that knew better, though perhaps Margareta meant to use DuJournal as a sounding board to test for holes in her narrative.
“Silence!” Margareta snapped. “A trial for a foreign spy, and one guilty of attempted regicide? Preposterous. The only reason you live is you may yet have some minor utility.”