Between Worlds: the Collected Ile-Rien and Cineth Stories (4 page)

When she stepped inside, she heard a woman say, “Must
have died in his sleep, poor thing.”

* * *

The morning was well advanced when Kade waited for the
glaistig beneath a bent aging willow in a stretch of forest near the river.

It dropped a lock of golden hair into Kade’s palm.

“Did he notice?” Kade asked, looking up at the
creature.

The glaistig’s eyes were limpid, innocent. “I did it
while he slept.”

“Very good.” She should have treated Devereux’ curse
with more caution, she had said that to herself a hundred times over the rest
of the long night.
And you should have known
. All those brave stories
Giles had told of her, his audacity in coming here to find her, should have
said it plainly enough. She had also said that she didn’t care, but no amount
of repetition could make a lie the truth.
Giles knew I was dangerous company
to keep.
Yes, he knew, but he had kept it anyway. And that made it all the
worse.

She added the hair to a small leather pouch prepared
with apricot stones and the puss from a plague sore, then sat down on a fallen
log to sew it up with the small neat stitches she had learned as a child.

“The sorcerer was lovely,” the glaistig said
regretfully, watching her.

“He was lovely,” Kade agreed. “And cunning, like me. And
I would trade a hundred of both of us to know that one unlovely ballad-singer
was still alive somewhere in the world.”

* * *

Kade left Riversee after that. She had thought to stay
to see the result of her handiwork, but she had discovered that knowing was
enough.

Gray clouds were building for a storm, and she might
have summoned one of the many flighted creatures of fayre and ridden the wind
with it, but she had also discovered that she preferred to walk the dusty road.
Some things had lost their pleasure.

This story takes place before the novel
The Death
of the Necromancer
, shortly before Nicholas met Madeline

Reynard Morane was at his usual table in the Cafe
Baudy, a somewhat risqué establishment built on a barge in the Deval Forest
pleasure garden’s lake, when a beautiful man approached his table. This wasn’t
an unusual occurrence, especially in this cafe, but this beautiful man was a
stranger. He said, “Captain Morane?”

From his features and dark skin, the man was Parscian,
a little younger than Reynard but not by much, tall and well-built, and dressed
in an elegant but understated way which suggested some level of the upper class.
The coat was too expensive for the man to be from a university. For some
reason, Reynard attracted a high percentage of men of academic persuasions. “Yes.”
Reynard smiled warmly. “Please join me.”

The man hesitated, then drew out the opposite chair. “A
friend told me about you.”

“And which friend is this?” Reynard caught the waiter’s
attention and lifted his brows. The waiter sized up the situation
professionally, then went to the bar for a fresh bottle of wine and glasses.

“A man named Biendare.” The man lowered his voice. “I
believe he is known in some circles as ‘Binny.’“

“Binny?” Reynard frowned. This was not encouraging. Binny
was not someone who would have recommended Reynard for an assignation. At least
not the kind of assignation Reynard had hoped for. Just to make certain, he
said, “At the roasted nut kiosk on the Street of Flowers?”

“No, it was in March Street, at a wine bar that also
sells fried fish.”

“Right.” Reynard sat up, adjusting his attitude from
invitingly indolent to business-like and alert.

The waiter arrived at the table with the bottle and
glasses. Reynard sighed and told him, “No.”

“No?” The waiter looked startled, then disappointed. “Oh.
Coffee, perhaps?”

“Coffee,” Reynard agreed.

The man cast a puzzled look at the retreating waiter’s
back, and Reynard admitted, “I was hoping it was an assignation.” He waved a
hand. “It’s the Cafe Baudy, you know. There are often assignations.”

“Oh, yes, I...” The man obviously decided to drop that
subject and pursue his objective. “My name is Amadel. I am the confidential
secretary for the Lady Shankir-Clare. She needs assistance of a...particular
sort.”

Reynard held up a hand for silence as the waiter
approached. He waited until the coffee service had been arranged and the waiter
departed, then said, “She’s being troubled by someone but feels unable to
confide the details to the Prefecture?”

“Yes, exactly.” Amadel added cream to his cup with the
relief of a man who had been searching everywhere for help and was finally in
the right place.

This was odd. The Shankir-Clares were a family of
rather famous diplomats, wealthy and well-respected in both Parscia and
Ile-Rien, where the different branches of the family had originated. Reynard
had never met any of them because they were the sort of people who were invited
to the palace, not the sort who traveled in demi monde circles. No wonder
Amadel hadn’t been familiar with the Cafe Baudy. “How did you ever run across
Binny?”

“Lady Shankir-Clare’s hairdresser knew him,” Amadel
said. “She said he was the best way to contact people who could help
with...sensitive problems.”

“Is it blackmail?” Reynard asked. If one of the
Shankir-Clare ladies had trusted her affections to the wrong man, and it wasn’t
someone associated with the infamous Count Montesq, Reynard could probably have
it taken care of before dinner. “I quite like dealing with blackmailers. I have
some experience at it.”

“It isn’t an ordinary blackmailer. It’s a sorcerer.” Amadel’s
brow furrowed as if he was trying to control a wince of anticipation. He
thought Reynard would refuse the commission now. Most of the people who did
this sort of thing wouldn’t tangle with a sorcerer.

Reynard smiled. “Then Binny sent you to the right
place.” He signaled the waiter to bring the bill.

* * *

An hour later, having exchanged cards with Amadel and
made an appointment for a meeting at the Shankir-Clare townhouse, Reynard ran
Nicholas down in the southern river docks, in a cafe that was normally used by
shipping and warehouse workers.

Nicholas was in his disguise as Donatien, and so was
dressed in the work clothing of a minor clerk. The disguise changed the shape
of his mustache and short beard, and made him look distinctly older. He was not
currently working on following anyone or spying on anyone or waiting to meet
someone to spy or follow at some point in the future. Reynard knew this because
Nicholas was reading a book in the binding of the lending library up on
Crossriver Street, which did not mesh with his persona of Donatien, but wasn’t
out of bounds for the clerk costume he was currently wearing. Also, Cusard had
directed him here and said Nicholas had just stepped out for coffee.

Reynard took a seat at the table and Nicholas frowned
at him in affront, as if he had been joined by a stranger. Having worked with
Nicholas for some time now, Reynard found nothing unusual in this. Nicholas
maintained two major personas: Donatien, the criminal mastermind of Vienne,
hunted by the Prefecture, and Nicholas Valiarde, art importer and gentleman of
minor note. There were dozens of others, but Reynard didn’t usually bother to
sort them out. He said, “I have an appointment this afternoon.” He placed
Amadel’s card on the table.

Nicholas hesitated, possibly shedding whatever persona
he had found necessary to employ to sit here in the quiet cafe and read. He
picked up the card and examined it front and back, then tucked it away in his
coat. “I can’t give you much time. I have to go to the theater tonight.”

There was an actress that Nicholas had been watching. One
would call it “courting” except for the fact that Nicholas had made no attempt
to contact her or draw her attention to himself in any way. Reynard considered
it a step in the right direction that Nicholas was admitting that he was
looking at her. Whether he would at some point actually speak to her was anyone’s
guess. Reynard said, “From what I understand it’s a sorcerer involved in
blackmail.”

Nicholas lifted his brows. “Someone is blackmailing
the Shankir-Clares? And is still alive? That’s intriguing.”

Reynard heard the undercurrent in those words, though
he doubted anyone else would have detected it. Nicholas hated blackmailers,
with a passion that made Reynard’s feelings toward them pale. Count Montesg,
the man who had caused Nicholas’ foster father’s death, made much of his living
by blackmail. “Yes, for some reason they can’t go to the magistrates or just
have tea with the queen and ask her to tell the court sorcerer to go and crush
the idiot,” Reynard said. Criminal acts of sorcery toward the nobility fell
under the court sorcerer’s purview, and would be reported to him even if the
Shankir-Clares took it to the Prefecture. “His name is Antoine Idilane. Have
you heard of him?”

Nicholas concentrated for a moment, obviously
consulting a mental file of names. “No. He’s not known in my circles.”

Criminal circles, Nicholas meant. That didn’t mean
Idilane wasn’t a criminal, it just meant he wasn’t one who Nicholas had ever
encountered. “He’s a student at Lodun.”

Nicholas said, “If he’s a student at Lodun, why is he
in Vienne in the middle of term?”

“That’s an interesting question,” Reynard agreed. “He
might be traveling back and forth; it’s not that long by express train.”

Nicholas frowned. “It’s not very convenient. He might
not be attending lectures. Or the university might have requested that he make
himself scarce.”

Reynard nodded. “Will you ask around for me this
afternoon?”

 “Of course.” Nicholas eyed him. “If you find you need
assistance, you know you can call on me.”

 “I was hoping you’d say that.” Reynard smiled. “I’ll
even give you half the fee.”

Nicholas gestured that away. “Unnecessary.” Despite
having spent his early life in great poverty, Nicholas was indifferent to
money. He had enough for his purposes and greed was never his motivation for doing
anything.

For Reynard, interfering with a blackmailer was
payment enough. He had lost a young lover to suicide because of one, and the
blame had been all his since Reynard had not taken better care to keep the
young man’s letters safe. Reynard had had many lovers, both before and after
the incident. But since then he put a great deal of effort into making sure
none of them suffered from their association with him, no matter how brief. He
also eliminated blackmailers, sometimes by frightening them off, sometimes by
hiding what was left of the bodies. “People, especially people like the
Shankir-Clares, like to pay for services rendered. It’s difficult for them to
understand that we do it for amusement.”

Nicholas’ expression was annoyed. “We don’t do it for
amusement.”

 “Keep telling yourself that,” Reynard said, and took
his leave.

* * *

Shankir-Clare House was on Ducal Court Street, a
four-story edifice that still managed to look elegant and reserved despite the
massive classical columns lining the pediment. When a footman opened the door,
Reynard handed over his visiting card.

The servants must have been told to expect him because
he was whisked into the large foyer and up the stairs, past the public second
floor and up to the third, where the family would have their private rooms. The
parlor he was taken to was occupied by Amadel, who looked as if he had been
pacing the entire time, and two ladies, one of whom Reynard recognized
immediately.

Lady Shankir-Clare was a lovely woman in her early
50s, with the dark skin and the hawkish features of the Parscian side of the
family. She wore an elegant blue afternoon visiting gown, with a Parscian-style
silk patterned scarf wrapped around her hair. The young girl who sat beside her
on the lounge was not so elegant or so lovely, but then she didn’t look as if
she was old enough to be introduced into formal society. There was a suggestion
of lanky knees and elbows under her perfectly acceptable gown, and she wore a
pair of spectacles. They made her look bookish, but then she probably was
bookish. Reynard thought she might be a young relative, brought to the city for
a visit. Surely Lady Shankir-Clare would send her away before they got down to
business.

Amadel said, “My lady, this is Captain Reynard Morane.
Captain Morane, this is the Lady Shankir-Clare and her daughter, Miss Belina
Shankir-Clare.”

Reynard bowed. He would never have taken that young
girl as the daughter of this elegant house. And if she was here, she had to be
involved in the blackmail, if not the principal victim. It almost shocked him;
this girl was still a child, surely.

 “Please sit down.” Lady Shankir-Clare gestured to a
chair. “Amadel has told you a little of our problem.”

Reynard took a seat, as did Amadel. Reynard said, “Yes,
he said that you’re having difficulty with a certain sorcerer.”

 “Yes.” She glanced at Belina. “My daughter has fallen
victim to a...” Her jaw tightened and she clearly considered and discarded
several terms. “A predator.” Belina looked glum.

Reynard nodded. “I also know that you feel you can’t
go to the Prefecture or the palace for help. I was curious as to why. This
seems like something that could be put before the court sorcerer.”

 “It seems like it.” Lady Shankir-Clare’s voice was
dry. “But we would prefer to keep it away from the court.”

 “Tell him,” Belina said, flatly. “If you’re asking
him to help, then you have to trust him.”

Reynard decided he liked Belina a good deal. He
waited, and after a moment, Lady Shankir-Clare said, “The court sorcerer is not
our friend.”

“I’ve heard he isn’t a friendly man, in general.” Reynard
had heard he was a right bastard, actually.

Lady Shankir-Clare explained reluctantly, “Members of
my family have doubted his loyalty to the queen and suggested to her that she
might replace him. Word of this was carried to him.”

“Ah.” Yes, that meshed with the rumors circulating
among the demi monde. “And you don’t trust him to deal with your daughter’s
situation with the delicacy it requires.”

“I’m not in a delicate situation,” Belina said, with
some heat. “I may be a fool, but I didn’t sleep with him.”

Her mother glared. Reynard assured Belina, “I was
using ‘delicate’ as a metaphor, not a euphemism.” But it was refreshing to deal
with someone who spoke plainly. He had thought it would take another half hour
before Lady Shankir-Clare got around to admitting what the problem was. Belina
seemed sensible, and he had trouble imagining how she could have ended up in
this situation, unless someone had set a deliberate trap for her. “What exactly
did he do to you? Or you to him?”

“He propositioned me, at a ball. I laughed at him.”
Belina grimaced in a very unlady-like fashion. “I didn’t mean to be cruel. I
was nervous and it startled me. No one ever did that before!” Resigned, she
gestured helplessly. “I apologized, but it didn’t do any good.” She leaned
forward. “Is that normal for men?”