One more step and she realized what it was: the charred remnants of a man's leg. Her concentration failed. The bubble burst. Ish screamed in her mind as he reached across the distance between them to, for a heartbeat, hold away the inferno alone. She seized the burden from him, her magic tearing at his, and felt his consciousness go out like a candle, leaving her utterly alone in the midst of fire.She never did remember how she took the remaining dozen steps to the door. She stepped out of the doorway into the air, into the fine spray of the fire hoses, the globe of flame unraveling upward from around her. Through the wild ripples of heated air and water, she perceived the crowd, and for a moment felt sheer social panic at the thought of so many witnesses-and then realized that they must sonn her against the turbulence of fire even more poorly than she sonned them. With a steadying step, now that the immense drain of magic had ceased, she angled her walk along the side of the building and out into the milling gathering beyond the edge. No one accosted her; their faces were all turned to the fiery chaos of sonned flame. In her arms, Florilinde stirred and whimpered, and she touched her lightly with magic, soothing her, as she continued to ease through the crowd. Several sonned her, smelling smoke, she realized, smoke and the charred and scorched places on her dress. She did not return their sonn, did nothing except navigate through the crowd, Florilinde held tightly in her arms. Anyone who accosted her, she thought, would regret it.
She crossed the bridge against the press of spectators too excited by the fire to pay much attention to her. The trams seemed to have halted with the sirens, and walking the pavement was much easier. Florilinde stirred again, whimpering, and suddenly she vomited over Telmaine's bodice. Telmaine paused, laid her chin against Flori's clammy forehead, and sank her awareness into her daughter's body. She found no injury, no inflammation, only a residue of wrongness-they'd fed her spoiled food.
And if they had not, she would have been lying on her bed when the Shadowborn trap exploded, and Telmaine could no more have saved her than she could have saved those men.
She reached the Upper Docks Circle unmolested, and-sweet Imogene-the carriage was still there, with the coachman standing in his seat and straining to hear what was outside his sonn. Telmaine said in a hoa.r.s.e rasp, "Help me."
He nearly refused, concerned for his upholstery; a brush of her fingers through her burned-away glove told her of the conflict within him, between a father's compa.s.sion for a sick child, and a breadwinner worried about feeding his own children from his slender profits. She realized she had no reticule; she had dropped it-she did not know where. The loss of Bal's love knot pierced her, but dimly. She said, "I've lost . . . my money. But if you get me to the ducal palace, I'll ensure you're paid. I need to report to . . . I need to report to Master Blondell." It was a threadbare inspiration, but it sufficed. The coachman hesitated, and then shed his cloak and laid it inside the carriage-a gesture of kindness, she realized, warmth for the whimpering, trembling child. He helped her lift Florilinde and then herself aboard, and asked no questions, for which she was deeply grateful. As the carriage began to move, she rocked her bundled daughter gently in her arms, ignoring the slime of vomit covering her bodice, and waiting for Florilinde to know her once more. And tried desperately not to think of that last sense of Ishmael, suffering her draining, making that impossible reach to save her, and going to ash in her mind.
Ten
Balthasar
B al was relieved when loyal, anxious Sylvide di Reuther left. He had been hard-pressed to talk her out of going to search for Telmaine, particularly since he would dearly have liked to do so himself, and if she'd said one more time, "I shouldn't have let her go," he might have said something he would regret. He was exhausted with rea.s.suring her when he had no such rea.s.surance to give himself, no matter how often he told himself that Telmaine was not yet overdue, that she might have had to wait for the inquiry agents, that . . . The broadsheets under his fingers were little help, filled as they were with speculation about Ishmael di Studier's arrest and reports of the riot. They still lacked the name of Ishmael's alleged victim, which merely gave them license to couple his name to the most celebrated corpses and unsolved disappearances in the last twenty years: the Three Headless Women of the Lower Docks, Beven Imre's vanished mistress, and a dozen others. Bal should have followed it all with clinical fascination, had he not been involved, compromised, bound to stand by when a decent man was rent and scalded by public opinion. al was relieved when loyal, anxious Sylvide di Reuther left. He had been hard-pressed to talk her out of going to search for Telmaine, particularly since he would dearly have liked to do so himself, and if she'd said one more time, "I shouldn't have let her go," he might have said something he would regret. He was exhausted with rea.s.suring her when he had no such rea.s.surance to give himself, no matter how often he told himself that Telmaine was not yet overdue, that she might have had to wait for the inquiry agents, that . . . The broadsheets under his fingers were little help, filled as they were with speculation about Ishmael di Studier's arrest and reports of the riot. They still lacked the name of Ishmael's alleged victim, which merely gave them license to couple his name to the most celebrated corpses and unsolved disappearances in the last twenty years: the Three Headless Women of the Lower Docks, Beven Imre's vanished mistress, and a dozen others. Bal should have followed it all with clinical fascination, had he not been involved, compromised, bound to stand by when a decent man was rent and scalded by public opinion.
The papers crumpled under his clenching hands as he heard the outer door open, and his borrowed manservant's agitated voice. A woman's voice, husky and strange, spoke sharply to him. Balthasar pushed himself up on his pillows, wondering what new incursion he faced now. Through his door came a whiff of smoke, sweat, perfume, and vomit, and someone kneed it wider with a thud. Telmaine entered, her face ghastly with strain, arms full of a cloak-wrapped bundle. He scarcely dared breathe for shock turning to hope. Staggering, unspeaking, she laid the bundle on the bed, and Balthasar sonned the sleeping or unconscious face of their elder daughter.
"Flori," he breathed. "How?"
"By the grace of Gil di Maurier," said Telmaine in a thick voice. "I need to give the cloak back to the coachman. I need to pay him." She seemed unable to do either, though she protested when Bal called in the servant to lift Flori from the cloak, roll up the garment, and carry it and her generous fee down to the waiting coachman. She protested again when he pulled himself up onto his knees to examine Flori, who was stirring now.
He discovered the vomit on Florilinde's clothes. "Was she injured? Has she been drugged?" he said, carefully examining the child's head for swellings, her abdomen for tenderness.
"I think it's food poisoning. It's all right, Bal. She'll be fine."
His gently probing hands elicited no complaint. Florilinde's sonn wavered over him. "Papa . . . Mama . . ."
It would have taken a sterner physician than he to resist the arms lifted to him. He folded Florilinde in his embrace, heedless of her fouled dress. "Sweet Imogene, Telmaine, you are the most . . . the bravest . . . How did you find her?"
"It was Guillaume di Maurier who found her. Sylvide-did she tell you?"
"Yes, but . . . but she told me you were going to tell the inquiry agents."
"I decided Florilinde didn't have time," she said flatly. "And she didn't."
Telmaine's veil was gone. She stank of sweat, vomit, burned fabric, and smoke. Holding his daughter close, he whispered, "Fire? Oh, sweet Imogene, Telmaine. You could both have died."
"Papa," Florilinde said, her voice rising to a panicked pitch.
"Take hold of yourself, Balthasar!" Telmaine snapped. She pulled Florilinde away and curled herself around her, stroking her forehead.
He fell back on his pillows, trying to master his reaction at the risk his wife had run. "She's dehydrated," he finally managed. "Did she vomit on the way here? Has she had diarrhea?" He thought he could smell feces. "We have to start getting fluids into her, try to keep pace with the fluid loss."
Telmaine seemed oblivious to his voice as she cradled her daughter.
High, childish sonn pinged him. Amerdale, entering unnoticed, scrambled onto the bed with a glad, "Flori!" which changed swiftly to an, "Ugh!" as she smelled her mother and her sister. "Papa, is Flori sick?"
"A little, I think," he said shakily. "But we'll make her well."
"Where's Fuzzbear? Do you still have Fuzzbear?" She scrambled amongst the bedclothes until she retrieved the stuffed toy he had carried with him throughout, and thrust it toward her sister. "Here's Fuzzbear, Flori. Papa brought him all this way. He knew you'd be back. I did too."
Flori's arm crept around the toy, and she smiled tentatively at her sister and father. "Mama," she said, in a small, somewhat smothered voice. "Mama, I'm hungry. . . ."
Balthasar
Malachi Plantageter arrived late in the night, in response to Balthasar's urgent note. The superintendent appeared weary, as well a man might who had the responsibility for public law and order on a night like tonight. It was a mark of Bal's elevation by marriage that he merited a personal visit and not a deputy.
"Thank you for coming," Bal said. "Sit down, please. Can I ask for anything for you to eat or drink?"
Plantageter lowered himself into a chair. "Thank you, but my wife would not forgive me; she has my dinner kept for me, no matter how late I arrive home. Before we come to the substance of your note, I heard that your daughter had been found, alive."
"Yes," Bal said, letting his natural joy sound in his voice.
"That must have been a great relief to you."
"It's a very great relief, not only for the sake of my daughter and wife, but because it frees me to . . . do what is moral and right."
A brief silence. "I may need to talk to your wife," Plantageter said in a warning tone. "There were some additional disturbing events tonight." His heart rate picked up. "She is resting next door at present, with our daughters. I would much rather she not be disturbed."
"I understand. I would prefer not to impose on her." The tone made that, unmistakably, a warning. Bal wondered what Plantageter already knew-more than himself, he feared. And for the first time, he wondered if Telmaine were trying to do more than simply protect him from knowing what dreadful risks she had taken.
Sweet Imogene, had she set set that fire? that fire?
He said, too urgently, "I believe I know who killed Tercelle Amberley. I have only circ.u.mstantial evidence, but I do know that he has killed at least one woman in similar circ.u.mstances."
Plantageter waited a moment. Bal could almost feel him deciding whether to pursue the first topic, or let himself be distracted by the second. Then he said mildly, "Let me decide what is circ.u.mstantial and not circ.u.mstantial."
Bal faltered. He had resolved upon doing this, fiercely resolved upon doing this, even before Plantageter had begun asking questions around Telmaine. Even so, it was disconcertingly hard for him to find it in him to betray Lysander. But if he hesitated too long, he thought desperately, Plantageter might start asking again about Telmaine and the fire.
"I have a brother, Lysander Hearne, with whom I had not spoken for seventeen years. I was considerably surprised when he called on me last night. He wanted information about the whereabouts of the children Tercelle bore-he claimed, in fact, to be their father. In exchange, he offered me my daughter, missing these three days. He threatened her life if I did not comply with that and with his other demands. Thanks to the courage of Gil di Maurier and my wife, Florilinde has been found. I am therefore no longer bound to silence. I suspect him of the murder of Tercelle Amberley."
"And why do you suspect your brother?" Plantageter asked, intent, but revealing nothing.
"Seventeen years ago he killed a young actress he had made his mistress. He did not intend to, but he took her by the throat during a quarrel, and when he let go, she was no longer breathing." He paused, then made himself go on. "He came to me and begged my help in concealing the murder. He invoked the health of our parents, the reputation of our sister, my own prospects, and his horror of the end he would meet if convicted of murder. I helped him take the body, in secret, out of the city. We left it off the road for the sunrise while we took refuge in one of the wayfarers' shelters. After sunset we came back to confirm that it was gone."
"This was never reported, I presume."
"I can give you the girl's name and description and the day we left her outside the walls. You should find her in your records as an unsolved disappearance."
"You do know that if there were charges, you would face them also, though your youth-you were what, fourteen?-would be offered in mitigation."
"I was well aware, even then, that what I did was wrong," Bal said. "I will always regret-for the sake of the girl's family-that it has taken me so long to admit to the doing."
There was a silence, broken at last by Malachi. "No body, no evidence, only a long absence and the word of brother against brother. I doubt there would be charges merely on the basis of your confession." Bal drew breath, sensing the shroud of respectability drawing in. Malachi confirmed it, saying, "Your parents may be dead now, sir, but you have a wife and daughters. Consider them." He did not let Bal remonstrate; he continued, "How in particular does this relate to the death of Tercelle Amberley?"
Bal struggled with his thwarted need for rest.i.tution. Plantageter let him, his face implacable. He was not offering to spare Bal, that face said, but leaving him to his conscience.
"From the experience of living with my brother, I developed my professional interest in pathology of mind. Lysander Hearne, I believe, was and is pathologically narcissistic and devoid of conscience. Tercelle Amberley crossed him, perhaps by conceiving by him in the first place, but certainly by not remaining where they, or he, had planned she would have his children, and then by putting the children in my hands. I believe that it was Lysander Hearne, and not Baron Strumh.e.l.ler, who quarreled with Tercelle Amberley about the whereabouts of the twins, and in the midst of that quarrel took her around her throat and strangled her."
Malachi Plantageter said mildly, "Where did you learn the cause of death was strangulation?"
There was nothing to do but admit it. "Baron Strumh.e.l.ler said so. I presumed-since he found the body-he could tell."
There was a silence. "It is possible that you may be right. I have gained a certain facility in recognizing the criminal mentality myself, and I thought I recognized a type when I questioned your brother about the statement he had given impugning Baron Strumh.e.l.ler-it being no light thing to charge a border baron with murder."
"My testimony should surely help exonerate Baron Strumh.e.l.ler, should it not?"
Pantageter appeared even wearier. "It is immaterial now. I would much prefer you kept this to yourself for the moment, but it will be all over the broadsheets soon: Baron Strumh.e.l.ler died in his cell this evening."
"Died?" Bal said in disbelief. "Of what cause?"
"He appears to have suffered some kind of seizure, was heard groaning, the prison apothecary was called, and shortly afterward he expired."
"Had he . . . had he been ill?"
"He was brought into the prison in a state of collapse, though he seemed to recover well enough. His lawyers were going to arrange for a physician's examination." He seemed about to say more, then stopped himself.
Bal tried to steady his voice. "When did that happen?"
He got the answer he feared. "Around two of the clock. Why do you ask?"
At the very time Telmaine was carrying Florilinde out of the blazing warehouse. Bal struggled to keep his responses predictable; this information he could not could not give Plantageter. "Will there be an autopsy?" give Plantageter. "Will there be an autopsy?"
"If the family chooses. The prison has no jurisdiction over the body of a man who dies while awaiting trial, only over those who die after conviction. We have released the body; it will, I understand, be transported back to the Borders for the final ceremonies."
"Surely the charges will not be allowed to stand now?"
"I think it likely that pet.i.tion would be made to the court to have the charges set aside. I would support that."
"You don't believe the charges, do you?"
Plantageter hesitated, then said, "Certainly not the second, which seemed to me . . . well, desperate opportunism seems the least of it. As to the charge of murder, I will investigate it to the fullest ability of my department, pressed though we are. May I count on your a.s.sistance in that, if need be?"
"You may count on it," Bal said, hearing the grimness in his own voice. "It is my own and my family's best protection against further threats from that quarter."
"I will speak to the ducal guard and let them know that I wish to interview your brother, and moreover that he should not be granted admittance here."
"Thank you," Bal said, and then, "Wait. Has Lord Vladimer awakened?"
"No."
"Then that exonerates Ishmael di Studier of the charge of sorcery!" Bal said, pushing himself close to a sitting position. "Magical effect is sustained by the life force of the mage. When the mage dies, the magic dies. If Lord Vladimer is still affected, Ishmael di Studier was not responsible."
"I have heard that said, yes, but what then of Imogene's Curse, laid by mages eight hundred years dead?" He paused, but Bal had no answer for that one incontrovertible exception. "And not only has Lord Vladimer not awakened, he is said to be sinking." Wearily, he pushed himself to his feet. "My best wishes for your recovery, and your daughter's. a.s.sure your wife that I will be speaking to her only if it is unavoidable."
Balthasar fell back against the pillows as the echoes of their sonn faded to the vague, constant shimmer of sound. A thump and rustle in the doorway to the inner bedroom brought his head up. Telmaine was there, supporting herself with a two-handed grip on the doorjamb.
"Ishmael is dead dead?" she said in a raw whisper. "Dead?" "Dead?"
"I fear so," he said.
He pushed himself up, bracing his straight arm behind him, and held out the other arm to receive her stumbling rush across the room. She fell across the bed, face in his chest, and began to cry. He let himself down onto his elbow, then his back, and took her in his arms while she sobbed as though she would never stop.
In the early years of his marriage, he had wondered why Telmaine had encouraged his suit, had waited out the years of her father's resistance, and had married him with such apparent satisfaction at her choice. She was so beautiful, and so highly born, cousin to the archduke himself, and on intimate terms with those of his circle. Whereas he himself might be able to trace his own lineage to archdukes, that lineage was filtered through a long succession of younger sons. Hearne might be a name of note in the public service and intellectual histories, but was attached to neither t.i.tle nor property. He was uncomfortable in the elevated society of her birth, while her readiness to play hostess at his gatherings of scientists, physicians, and councilmen put him to shame. All he had to offer her was his love. He had wondered at times what would happen to make her regret her choice, if she met a man of her own cla.s.s whom she could love. Had Ishmael di Studier been that man?
Telmaine's wretched sobbing finally abated. He shifted her on his chest-she was leaning on his still-tender left ribs-and said quietly, "There was something between you, wasn't there?"
