Valour and Vanity
Authors: Mary Robinette Kowal
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For Glenn and Pat
Contents
Tor Books by Mary Robinette Kowal
Always laugh when you can, it is cheap medicine.
—LORD BYRON
One
In Like a Lion
It may be stated with some certainty that travel can be trying even to the steadiest of characters. Thus it was with some trepidation that Jane, Lady Vincent, found herself on a tour of the continent as part of her sister’s wedding party. Her last visit to the continent had ended abruptly when Napoleon had escaped his exile and reigned terror on Europe.
The troubles she faced with this tour had been of the prosaic sort: which carriage to take, how to arrange their party’s quarters, and, most of all, how to manage her mother’s nerves. Those nervous complaints had been a constant companion on their meandering course across Europe. Jane was relieved that they were now in the Free Imperial City of Trieste, where she and her husband would separate from the rest of the family. She would miss Melody and Mr. O’Brien, and had become quite fond of his parents, Lord and Lady Stratton. Of course she would be sorry to say farewell to her father, but no amount of tender regard for her mother could quite subdue her relief at their impending departure.
Fair weather had favoured them, and their last morning in the city had been filled with balmy breezes off the Gulf of Venice, which gave glad tidings for the voyage that they would shortly take to Venice and from there to Murano.
Jane climbed down the worn steps of the old Roman amphitheatre in the heart of the city, following her husband to where the stage had once lain. The sides of her bonnet shielded her from glimpsing the modern buildings that surrounded the open-air theatre and allowed her to maintain the conceit that she stood in part of the Roman Empire.
As she walked, she kept her gaze trained upon Vincent’s back.
Though it was at least three years out of fashion, the blue coat of superfine showed off the breadth of Vincent’s shoulders to great advantage. His brown hair curled over the top of his tall collar. Even with his high crowned hat, the wind dishevelled his hair further than his usual wont. When he made an effort, he could cut as fine a figure as any gentleman of Jane’s acquaintance, but she much preferred the ease of his natural carriage.
Vincent paused at the base of the stairs and consulted the letter he was holding. “Byron says that the glamural is under an arch to the right of the stage.”
Jane lifted her head and peered around, looking for the old stage illusion. Trieste had so many ruins from when it was part of the Roman Empire that no one in the town paid them much heed, but Lord Byron’s letter to Vincent said that this faded revenant of glamour was worth viewing. As the ruin was but three streets from the docks, it seemed a natural excursion to make before departing.
The sides of the amphitheatre rose around them in a gentle slope that took advantage of the natural hillside. Remnants of old brick pilings showed where the back of the stage had once stood as a colonnade. Now there was nothing there to prevent them from seeing the street, which ran just on the other side of a row of remaining column bases. A few slabs of marble still graced the ruins, a vestige of their former glory. “Do you think he meant a whole arch or a fragment?”
Vincent scowled at the page, holding it in both hands to steady it against the warm breeze. “I am uncertain.”
Jane took a few steps toward one of the marble remnants, which stretched higher than the others. As she did, part of a brick arch came into view. Movement flickered within it for a moment. “Here, Vincent.”
He hurried across the cracked paving stones, folding the letter as he went. “Well spotted, Muse.”
Jane and Vincent slowed as they reached the arch, as though their movement might disturb the illusion that had been spun there. In the shadow the remaining brick cast across the ground, the ghost of a lion stood, tossing its head. The glamourist who had created the illusion had rendered the lion with the precision of one who had actually seen such a beast. As faded as the illusion was, the folds of glamour that sketched it remained robustly alive. The mane was “torn and fray’d,” with almost no fine details remaining, but still moved as though it belonged to a real lion. The beast bent its head and opened its mouth in a silent roar. The skeins that would have provided the sound had long since decayed back into the ether.
Jane sought Vincent’s hand in wonder. He took it, as silent as she in appreciation for the artistry of the long dead glamourist. The lion swished its tail and stalked back and forth beneath the narrow confines of the arch. Its feet passed through rubble, but the illusion did not break. Sometimes he roared before stalking, sometimes after, and once he sat down and bathed a foreleg.
“What an amazing creature. So vital after all these years.”
“How … how do you think it is done?” Jane furrowed her brow, trying to understand the techniques involved. By her understanding of glamour, creating this illusion should have required weeks of effort, but stories written of the Roman theatre indicated that the glamours were refreshed with each production.
“I am confounded, truly.” Vincent let his hand slip free of hers and crouched to study the glamural more closely. “The folds of glamour that remain are too fragile for me to feel comfortable subjecting it to a closer inspection. I am astonished that it has survived this long. Perhaps it uses
amarrage en étrive
? Though that would not result in this variation…”
Jane squinted at the glamour, but without teasing the threads apart, it was impossible to tell how it had been created. Her husband was quite correct that the ancient folds were likely to tear if handled. She hazarded a guess based on what she could see. “If it were doubled or nested?”
“Possible.” He rested his hand on his chin as he studied the lion. “Look at the power in its movements.”
“I could almost believe that it was a recording, if it were not fully rendered.” The techniques to record sound in glamour were well understood, but comparable efforts with images were less satisfactory. Vincent had experimented with a weave that he called a
lointaine vision
, but it resulted in a view of the subject from only one perspective. The lion was fully fleshed out no matter where one stood.
“It has not repeated a cycle of movement once, has it?”
Jane shook her head and then, recognising that he was not watching her, pronounced her agreement. “Individual gestures, but not complete patterns. And I must own that I am relieved that you cannot sort out the effect any better than I can.”
“No surprise there. You have always been better than I at understanding threads.”
Though Jane would not admit it aloud, his praise of her skills still warmed her, even after nearly three years of marriage. It should no longer be a concern, but she sometimes still felt the shadow of his education with the celebrated German glamourist, Herr Scholes. “I will accept your compliment, only because I know that you have always refrained from looking at others’ work.”
“Not always. Recall that I first learned glamour by unstitching my sister’s lessons.” Vincent stood and stepped back to study the arch. Lost in abstracted thought, he walked through the arch to the other side. The lion roared as he passed by it, almost as though it had felt his movement. He put a hand on his hip and placed the other over his mouth as he stared at the lion. Finally, shaking his head, he dropped his hand. “It is a wonder.”
“Perhaps Herr Scholes will know.” Jane walked around the arch, not wanting to pass through the illusion, even though it could do no harm. She supposed it was a testament to the artist that the lion could still cause her a sense of disquiet.
“Or perhaps this is a technique that only one glamourist has ever known, and it is lost to history.”
“Such as our
Verre Obscurci
?” She took his hand. This was the tragedy of glamour: It could not be removed from the place where it was created. An accomplished glamourist could tie the folds of light off to keep them from vanishing back into the ether, but even that would fade and unravel over time. To move a glamour required exerting precise control over every thread that created it and maintaining each thread’s exact relation to every other thread. Two years prior, Jane and Vincent had discovered a way to record glamour in glass, the
Verre Obscurci
. It would not help save the lion, because the technique required glamourists to cast their folds through molten glass, but it did suggest a future in which great works were not confined to a single space.
He grimaced and squeezed her fingers. “I sometimes wonder if we are right to pursue it. Perhaps glamour is meant to be ephemeral.” He gestured to the lion. “Then I see something like this and wish for a way to carry it with me.”
“I cannot think that—”
“Jane! Vincent!” The voice of Jane’s younger sister pulled their attention to the street. Melody walked towards them, arm in arm with Alastar O’Brien. Even a glamural of cupids could not proclaim the newly-weds’ love more thoroughly than the glow of delight that seemed to surround them. It would not surprise Jane if they soon announced to her parents the impending arrival of a grandchild. “I thought we would never find you. Then Alastar remembered Vincent speaking of a glamural and Roman theatres, and la! Here you are.”
Vincent released Jane’s hand, stepping back to a proper distance. His natural reserve had diminished with Melody and Alastar, thank heavens, but he was still less easy when in a group.
Jane moved forward, smiling, to give him a moment. “I thought you were at the Roman baths with Mama.”
“We were, but then Mama was telling another lady that you were off to visit Lord Byron, and then that lady mentioned his poem “The Corsair,” and then Mama could think of nothing but pirates, and now she is certain that you will be killed at sea.” She tossed her head, and sunlight caught on her spectacles and made them flash. The lenses did nothing to diminish the power of Melody’s beauty. In the Roman ruins, her blond curls might well have been part of a glamour of some goddess. “We came to warn you that she is at the dock waiting.”
Jane closed her eyes in aggravation. Her mother had been the one to suggest taking ship to Venice after one of Mrs. Ellsworth’s many correspondents spoke highly of the beauty of the trip, even going so far as to recommend the
Ophelia,
for which they had obtained passage. Sadly, it did not surprise Jane to discover her mother’s mind had changed, and yet, of all things, what she had most wished to avoid was a scene with her mother upon their departure. That is why she had arranged to say their farewells at the hotel that morning. “Thank you for that.”
