The Element of Fire, Martha Wells [books for new readers .txt] 📗

already here, Thomas thought. Whether that was good or bad depended on what mood the King had been in when he had sent him. He said, “We’ll wait in here, Doctor,” as Dubell turned back toward him, and they went into the anteroom.

Tapestried hangings with a Garden of Paradise theme matched the carpet and table covers, cloaking the large, high-ceilinged room in rich shades of green. Renier stood before the immense marble hearth, abstractedly watching a manservant build up the fire. He was Preceptor of the palace’s chapter of Albonate Knights, which was a military order founded for the protection of the King’s person, and the only order of knighthood in Ile-Rien that still meant more than a courtesy title. They were members of some of the highest families in Ile-Rien, brought into the Order as boys, living in monastic discipline until they were knighted by the King. Renier would probably have made a better country bishop than a preceptor, but in his tenure he had kept the Order’s tendency toward religious fanaticism under tight control. He had broad shoulders and was muscled like a bear, and still rode to tourney on King’s Ascension Day, easily managing the weight of the heavy ceremonial mail. Over his court doublet and lace-trimmed collar, he wore the bedraggled coat of sackcloth and poorly cured leather all Albon knights bore in honor of St. Albon, who had done some wandering in the wilderness before his sainthood.

Renier looked up at their entrance, saw Dubell, and smiled. “Success.”

Thomas watched the Preceptor greet the old sorcerer, and wondered just how much Renier had known of tonight’s expedition.

The door opened again and Lord Aviler stood there a moment, eyeing them thoughtfully. He was dark haired, dressed in the blood red state robes of the Ministry, and his handsome sallow face was carefully controlled. He nodded to Renier and Galen Dubell, then his gaze shifted to Thomas. He said, “The River Quarter is on fire.”

Thomas smiled slightly to himself and went to lean casually against the mantelpiece. “Only a small portion of it.” Aviler had followed so quickly behind them that he knew the man must have been lying in wait.

“A stupid mistake.” Aviler moved farther into the room, his folded hands covered by the hang of his sleeves. Thomas wondered if the pose was intentionally copied from the High Minister’s late father, or if it was only habit. Aviler had recently inherited the post of High Minister of the body of nobles and wealthy merchants who formally advised, or were supposed to advise, the King, and had a great deal of theoretical power. But the Dowager Queen Ravenna actively opposed him, Queen Falaise ignored him except on social occasions, and no one had been able to do anything with Roland one way or the other since he had taken the throne at the end of Ravenna’s regency last year. Aviler was statesman enough to resent this and just inexperienced enough to occasionally reveal his feelings.

“Really, my lord, what do you want me to say?” Thomas raised his brows inquiringly. “That the mission was in danger of being found out so I set the city on fire to confuse the issue?”

Before Aviler could reply, Galen Dubell said quietly, “It was unavoidable.”

“Dr. Dubell.” Aviler acknowledged him stiffly. “It’s a pity you couldn’t have returned sooner and avoided this consternation.”

“That was my intention, my lord, but my plans went somewhat astray when my household was murdered and I was abducted.” Dubell said it with such good grace that Aviler was actually caught off guard.

“So Galen Dubell is a diplomat as well as a scholar,” Renier said softly to Thomas as Aviler recovered his composure. “He was something of a recluse when I knew him, but I suppose years of academic infighting at Lodun will give anyone eyes in the back of his head. It’s good he’s returned.”

Thomas wasn’t about to admit he missed Dr. Surete, who had held the post of Court Sorcerer since he could remember and had died suddenly last month of pleurisy. Surete had been seventy years old, had called every man under the age of sixty “boy,” and had been the terror of the court for his ability to use sardonic invective like a bludgeon.

Thomas said, “Let’s hope Dubell’s not anxious to get back to Lodun soon. We’re going to need his help.” Dr. Surete’s assistant Milam had been killed in an accident before Surete himself had died, and since then there had been nothing but argument over who would receive the appointment while lesser talents like Dr. Braun vied for attention.

Renier looked at him thoughtfully. “Lose anyone?”

Thomas’s expression betrayed nothing. “Does it matter?”

Renier said softly, “Forgive him, Thomas. He’s a boy and he was angry.”

“I thought you’d given up on the priesthood,” Thomas answered, thinking, If His Majesty Roland wants me to die in the line of duty, it’s his business, but he could have chosen a better time. If he doesn’t see that Grandier is a danger to the state… At Renier’s look he added, “It isn’t my place to condemn him or forgive him. But tell me, did Denzil suggest the plan to Roland, or was it someone else?”

Renier stiffened visibly. “I know of no plan.”

The double doors into the Privy Council Chamber beyond the anteroom opened and the Bisran ambassador stepped out, his expression grim. He was an older man, with the olive skin and hawklike profile of the Bisran aristocracy. Ile-Rien and its capital and court were alien to him, and his disapproval was evident. The excessive formality of the Bisran Court made it stagnant and stultified, while in Ile-Rien landlaw had traditionally permitted high officers and even personal servants to address kings and queens as “my lord” or “my lady,” and to forgo obeisance in informal circumstances. The ambassador’s dark plain clothing and simple white collar also marked him as a member of their sect that regarded any kind of ornamentation as a work of Hell; the opulence of the palace must seem almost a personal insult.

The ambassador’s hard eyes swept the room, pausing on Galen Dubell’s scholar’s cope and narrowing in dismayed disgust. Turning to the High Minister, he said, “Another sorcerer for the King’s menagerie, Lord Aviler?” In Bisra, the magical as well as most of the philosophical arts were condemned, though the theurgic magic their priest-magicians practiced had been a deadly barrier against outside attack during the war. Sorcery that was not performed under the auspices of the Bisran Church was outlawed, and punishable by death.

Aviler hesitated, his diplomatic smile turning thin with annoyance, unable to find the right words to defend Dubell’s honor without insulting the ambassador.

Before the silence could last long enough to give the Bisran a victory, Thomas interposed, “Perhaps that’s a subject you should discuss with the King himself?”

The ambassador flicked a resentful glance at him and received only an ingenuous smile in response. As a matter of policy, Roland did not receive the Bisran ambassador, who was not very pleased with this arrangement, since it required him to address his demands to the considerably less malleable Dowager Queen. But why is he here in the middle of the night? It could be only obstinate determination to get a hearing no matter who he inconvenienced, but Thomas doubted it. To compound the Bisran’s discomfort, he added, “But I’m sure my lady Ravenna dealt with you to her best ability.”

The ambassador said, “Her Majesty was most… civil,” and favored him with the same cold scrutiny he had employed on Dubell. The Bisran Court did not allow favorites to wield political power, so the ambassador tended to discount Thomas’s position and influence, and cordially hated him as well. It probably didn’t help either that the shape and tilt of Thomas’s black eyes gave his face a naturally cynical slant, and that with his dark hair and beard this effect made him resemble certain popular portraits of the Prince of Hell. If the ambassador had noticed the evidence Thomas’s climb on a wet and dirty building had left on his clothing, no doubt he attributed it to some adventure in debauchery.

Turning stiffly back to Aviler, the ambassador said, “Another matter. I wanted to make certain you understood that if Ile-Rien offers shelter to the devil’s son Grandier, the cost may be more than you are prepared to pay.”

Aviler bowed, his reserved manner masking a certain wariness. “I assure you, my lord Ambassador, Ile-Rien has no intention of offering shelter to a criminal sorcerer who has caused your land such pain.”

Besides, Grandier hasn’t asked for shelter, Thomas thought. Unfortunately. And since the Bisran sorcerer had announced his arrival in Ile-Rien by abducting a prominent Lodun scholar of Galen Dubell’s reputation, it hardly seemed possible that he would.

But it was likely that the ambassador was only using Grandier’s presence in the city as an excuse for a confrontation with Ravenna, and if he was being prodded by the Bisran War College to take a more aggressive stance with the Dowager Queen, it could only mean trouble. Bisra was miles of dry flat plains, and only tribute from its conquered states kept its coffers full. The Bisran Church exercised rigid controls on a populace that was land-poor and half-starved in the country and hovered at the brink of mob violence in the crowded cities. Ile-Rien had its uprisings and city mobs as well, but usually over taxes, and they were scattered outbreaks that were settled within a few days. Bisra seemed to teeter always on the edge of chaos, and with Ile-Rien’s rich land and its Church’s policy of tolerance toward the pagan Old Faith as a constant irritant, war had been inevitable and frequent.

And now Urbain Grandier’s depredations had made them even more desperate.

Thomas watched critically as the ambassador nodded with bare courtesy to Lord Aviler and strode to the anteroom door, the page stationed there barely managing to swing open the heavy portal in time.

As the door closed Aviler shook his head and said softly to Galen Dubell, “My apologies, Doctor. To a Bisran, any man in a scholar’s gown is half demon.”

Dubell’s expression was closed and enigmatic. “And a sorcerer, of course, is all demon.”

From the Privy Council Chamber two Queen’s guards entered and stepped to either side of the doors as the Dowager Queen came into the room. Everyone bowed and she acknowledged them with a nod and a slight smile. “Gentlemen. Forgive the delay.” Her graying red hair was tucked up into a lace cap and she wore a dark informal morning gown. She was over fifty now, and the years hadn’t diminished her beauty, but transformed and refined it. Only the faint laugh lines around her mouth and the shadow of strain at the corners of her eyes betrayed her age. She took a seat in the brocaded canopy chair beside the hearth, her attendant gentlewoman settling on a cushioned stool behind her. “Dr. Galen Dubell, I’m glad to find you in good health. Perhaps you can help us in explaining this matter.”

“Yes, my lady. You saw my letters concerning Urbain Grandier?” Dubell said, stepping forward.

“Yes. Dr. Surete brought them to me when he requested your return to court. His unfortunate death delayed the matter just long enough, it seems. When the messages came from Lodun telling of your disappearance I had already sent an order lifting the ban and requesting your return.” As she spoke she was already unfolding a square of half-completed black-work embroidery and looking for the needle that marked her place. Ravenna always had to have something to do with her hands. It was a habit that disconcerted all but the most resolute of petitioners and foreign ambassadors, but Thomas noted it didn’t seem to faze Dubell.

The old sorcerer bowed