Cameron splashed cold water on his face and dried it, staring at himself in the mirror. His reflection looked as though it was spoiling for a fight.
“You just had one, you idiot,” he told it. “With the wrong person.”
He bent again and applied cold water a second time. Maybe it could wash away his anger. Or at least the words he’d thrown at Sophie. The words she’d thrown back at him. “Do as you please,” she’d said.
None of it pleased him. Maybe that was the problem. No good options and no way to find a solution. He’d never liked not being able to solve a problem set to him.
But none of his training had prepared him to be set as the toy wedged between two angry rulers. Or an angry wife.
She pleased him. He knew that much. And he hated that he’d given her cause to doubt that. Sophie had made no secret of the fact that she felt guilt over the manner of their bonding and that he’d had to marry her. He thought she loved him, but somewhere within the foundation of that love was a small thread of doubt, waiting to trip her up.
He’d yanked hard on that thread just now. Goddess only knew what damage he’d done to the new-forged trust that formed the heart of their marriage. He’d never considered that a good marriage was a fragile thing, woven day by day by the acts of two people. In one so new as theirs, the threads were so fine to be near invisible, like a single strand of the silks Jeanne and his mother embroidered with. It took time and space to strengthen them into something that could bear the strain.
He’d seen a little of that with his brothers. Seen also, between his parents, what happened when the only things holding a marriage together were obligations and the constraints of society. His parents had been partners in the business of running the erldom and yes, they’d had children, so they had shared a bed at least three times. But there’d been little affection between them, other than the absent fondness you might have for something familiar in your life that made it easier. He’d never seen any sign of love in his parents. Or anything resembling the passion he shared with Sophie. Certainly his father had not seemed to be overly affected that his wife had died when she did. He’d simply moved his mistress nearer and shoved the burden of actually running the household onto Jeanne. As Liam’s—the heir’s—wife, Jeanne could hardly have shirked the duty.
Is that what he wanted his marriage to turn into? A loveless obligation? A resentment of the bond that held them together? She’d offered again to release him. It was entirely possible that here in Illvya she could find out how to do exactly that without his participation. Could set him free if that’s what she decided she wanted.
The thought made his blood run cold.
He was worse than an idiot. He didn’t want to be free. He wanted his marriage to be one of love like those his brothers had built with their wives. He wanted Sophie. Nothing else.
And he owed her an apology.
“Fix it,” he muttered at his reflection before leaving the bathroom. But he’d no sooner opened the door of the receiving room, intent on finding out which way Imogene and Sophie had gone, when one of Aristides’ silver-clad servants came around the corner of the corridor.
“Lord Scardale?” the man asked.
“Yes.” What now?
The man offered an envelope. “For you, my lord.”
As soon as Cameron took it, the man turned on his heel and headed back in the direction he had come, moving rapidly. Whatever was in the note, apparently it required no response.
He scanned the corridor. In the distance, the guards still stood outside the door of the dining room, which suggested Aristides was still inside with Henri. No doubt plotting whatever step came next in this game that was playing out around him and Sophie.
But at least they were safely out of the way for now. Other than the guards, the corridor was deserted.
Good. But still, he didn’t want the guards watching him reading a note. They would no doubt report that the servant had spoken to him if they had seen the exchange—and if they hadn’t, then Colonel Perrine had a problem on his hands—but he didn’t need to speed the news that he had received a message on its way to Aristides’ ears. Nor did he want to be interrupted while he read whatever this message was, so he went back into the receiving room, closing the door and leaning against it to ensure he wouldn’t be disturbed unexpectedly.
The envelope wasn’t sealed with wax and the paper itself bore no imprinted coat of arms or any other clue as to the writer’s identity. A simple single sheet of plain white paper of no particular quality, folded neatly into quarters.
He unfolded it. It was marked with a single line of text.
The barron’s tale is no mountain. Have care.
There was no signature. And the hand was careful, almost a perfect example of the script in the books his tutors had taught him from as a child. As though the author had deliberately scrubbed it of any sign of personality. It had to be James though.
He rubbed his finger over the words.
The truth and mountains, these things cannot be altered.
It was a northerner saying. One of those that had little meaning, really. But in the north, to say of something that it was no mountain meant it was not to be trusted. Or that it was an outright lie. No one else in the Anglion party was from the north. Nor was anybody else likely to be sending him a warning. Sir Harold had retired by the time Cameron had joined the Red Guard, so he had no reason to offer Cameron any favor. As for Sevan Allowood, well, that seemed as likely as Cameron growing wings and learning to fly.
So James. And a warning. That the barron was not telling them all there was to tell. He’d known that much already, but he hadn’t known how important what was being held back might be. Important enough for James to risk his neck, it seemed.
Danger, then. Some kind of threat. And he was here while his wife wandered around the palace with Imogene du Laq and goddess only knew how many other people. Unguarded.
That was his fault. But one he could rectify.
He hoped.
Ignoring the chill in his guts and the hairs tingling at the back of his neck, he shoved the note into the inner pocket of his jacket.
Then left the room to find Sophie.
Sophie almost stumbled into Imogene when she left the receiving room. Only the other woman catching her arm stopped them colliding.
“Sophie? Is everything well?”
“Perfectly.” It was a lie and no doubt Imogene could tell, but she didn’t care.
“Where is Lord Scardale?”
“He wanted a moment to refresh himself,” she said flatly. “He said to go on without him.” She had no idea if Imogene had just heard everything that had been said between her and Cameron. Maybe the room was warded, maybe it was not. It didn’t matter. She just needed to be somewhere away from him.
She waved in the direction they’d been walking before they had stopped. “Why don’t we continue our tour? I’m not sure Cameron is all that interested in architectures and furnishings and such anyway.”
Imogene blinked but then nodded, as though accepting the change of topic. Or accepting Sophie’s wish not to discuss what had just happened. The mage smiled at her. “Oh, I have something better to show you than furnishings. Come, I’m sure your husband can find us when he’s ready. I’ve learned in my years that it is often better to do as one wishes and let one’s husband catch up or not.”
Sophie imagined that any man married to Imogene might well decide that it was easier to let her take the reins a certain percentage of the time. And besides, she had no idea if the du Laqs’ marriage was based on politics or affection. There had to be at least some of the former in it. If duqs were anything like erls, then they weren’t completely free in their choice of spouse.
“That sounds very wise,” she said. “So, show me your better thing.”
She had no idea what Imogene’s better thing might be. But whatever it was, it took quite some time to travel through the palace. They walked through a series of grand hallways and corridors, down several flights of stairs and then through what Sophie suspected was a tunnel used by servants. Imogene had paused a time or two to point out features of the palace, but when Sophie had kept her responses brief to these explanations, she’d given up and picked up their pace.
When they emerged from the last hallway, Sophie wasn’t even sure they were still within the main building of the palace or whether they were now in one of the outbuildings she assumed must surround it. The hallway was much simpler, lacking the elaborate decorations of the palace, and the floor was gray stone tiles rather than marble. The ceiling still soared far above their heads, so wherever they were, it was still a large building. In her experience, palaces and other grand houses were usually surrounded by a network of stables and workshops and military barracks and servants’ quarters and storehouses. Even the Academe had some of these. There was no reason to assume that Aristides’ palace would be any different. This building could be almost anything. But before she could ask where they were, Imogene stopped in front of a pair of extremely tall doors. Exceedingly so. They must have been twenty feet tall or more.
But if the doors were large, the room they led into was enormous.
It would have fit several of Aristides’ ballrooms within it easily. In the middle of the room, a hive of activity centered around a framework of scaffolding that held a . . . well, she wasn’t entirely sure what.
“What is it?” Sophie said, staring up at the massive structure, Cameron and everything else forgotten for a moment as she looked up in wonder at the object resting in a vast frame above them. It reminded her of the hull of a ship, only fashioned from wood and leather and metal, joined together by some means she couldn’t even begin to fathom. But instead of masts and rigging, there was . . . nothing. Not that she could see. She could see people climbing around the frame, balanced on scaffoldings or dangling over the edges on complicated rope and leather harnesses.
“Something new,” Imogene said, eyes shining as she gazed upward as well. “I call it a navire d’avion.”
Sophie parsed the Illvyan carefully. “A ship of air? But how can a ship float on air?”
“Ah. Well, that is a very good question. Very good, indeed. But come, let me show her to you.”
Her? The thing didn’t look particularly female to Sophie, but Anglion sailors referred to boats as female. Perhaps Illvyans did as well.
“Please,” she said and followed Imogene across the room, intrigued.
The workers they passed bowed or curtsied at Imogene. Men and women, Sophie realized. Working with wood and metal and leather. Boatbuilding in Anglion was a male occupation. As were most forms of carpentry. Women got to furnish the insides of houses and palaces, not decree what they should look like outside.
The navire only grew larger in scale as they approached it. Imogene led her over to a row of long tables set up about fifteen feet from the outer edge of the scaffolding. A wide roll of paper lay flat across the surface of the center table, its corners weighted down with a china cup, a smaller hammer, and two large iron bolts. Drawn on it were diagrams of the structure before them, shown from various angles, both inside and out. Sophie had never seen such a thing before. She bent to take a closer look.
The drawings were skillfully rendered, the details intricate. She didn’t understand all the markings and numbers that surrounded each diagram, but that didn’t matter.
She pointed to the image that looked most like a completed ship’s hull. It showed sails of a sort, though they protruded from the sides as well as from two masts in more usual places. “Is this what she will look like when she’s finished?”
“Yes,” Imogene said, grinning. “Is she not beautiful?”
The vessel looked more like the result of some strange mating between a giant fish and a ship. But there was an odd sort of elegance to the lines. Easier to see on the drawing than on the scaffolding-draped edifice before her. “Astonishing,” Sophie said diplomatically. “But what will it be used for?”
“The empire is large. And travel is slow,” Imogene said. She gazed up at the navire, expression hungry. “This will be faster. It doesn’t need water or tides or good roads. Just a little wind.” She looked back down to the image of the ship, her finger tracing its lines. “Wind and a little magic.”
“Is that how it will rise into the air, magic?” Sophie looked from the diagrams to the giant bulk of the hull before her. There was nothing else that suggested how such a creation could do anything but crash to the earth.
“Yes,” Imogene said. “The sanctii say it is possible. If we can find the right combination of powers. We have experimented with other means. There are gases that are lighter than air. That will float if contained.”
“What’s a gas?”
Imogene’s mouth opened. Then closed. Then opened again, her expression horrified. “What do they teach you Anglions in school?”
“Reading, writing. Some arithmetic. Anglion history and geography. Deportment and various artistic and domestic pursuits for girls. Some magical theory if it is likely that you may manifest.”
Imogene scowled. “No sciences? Nothing of the natural world?”
Sophie shook her head. “Not that I was taught. I learned some from my mother and father, of course. About herbs and crops and looking after the animals on the estate.”
“Hmmph. What a waste. Do Anglions not think that girls have brains, too?”
“They know we have brains. But there are certain things that women do there and certain that men do. The magics fall that way, too. As the goddess—” Sophie caught herself. It wasn’t as the goddess intended. Not to Illvyan eyes. Here, men and women could practice any of the Arts. There were a few male students in her earth classes. Outnumbered by the females, yes, but they were there. Just as there were female blood mages. The Arts of Air were taught to both sexes as well.
“I mean,” she continued, “there are traditions.”
“There are traditions here, too. But traditions may change and shift. And even tradition isn’t a good enough reason for preventing someone from pursuing an interest or an occupation if they show a talent for it. I think you would be wise to stay here.”
“It’s not so simple,” Sophie said. And now she was thinking of Cameron again. She didn’t want to think about that. “Tell me what a gas is.”
“I shall give you the simple version,” Imogene said, “which is that everything around us in the world is made up of different substances that have different properties. All things can be broken down to these parts if you know how. Blood. Water. Dirt. People. We are all made of the same things. In different combinations.” She smiled at that. “Air itself is made up of these things. In tiny, tiny quantities spaced far apart that . . . well, let us say they float, for want of a better explanation. Air is a gas. Things that do not float are called solids. Except when they’re liquids. It has to do with the way the chemicals are held together. Which is overly complicated. So air floats and so do the chemicals within it. There are ways of isolating those chemicals, which gives you gases other than air. Some of them are lighter than air, as I said, so they will float in air. The trouble with those is that they also tend to be very flammable. The merest spark can set them alight. Which, when you build a structure containing metal, that will carry people who need fire for food and heating and wish to travel through skies that sometimes bring lightning, is not such a good solution.”
“So, you want to find a magical way to mimic how those gases work?”
“Or to find another way to make the navire float.” Imogene picked up the china cup. “If one could lift it.” She held the cup in one hand and waved the other beneath it. “Push it up with more air. Or the power of the ley lines. Blood mages can move objects with magic. We just need a way to increase that power.” She put the cup back down. “I will find it.”
“Find what?” a voice behind them asked.
Sophie turned at the same time as Imogene. Cameron.
He still looked somewhat grim, the dark evening clothes turning him to something elegant but distant. She wanted to reach for him. She always wanted to reach for him. But no, she wouldn’t give in to the pull of him today. Not until she knew how things lay between them.
“A way to power my navire,” Imogene said, indicating the ship with a nod. She looked to Cameron, then back to Sophie. “To make it ride the air.”
Cameron looked up at the structure. “Big.”
“Yes. Once it is up, the air would help carry it. That’s what the sails at the sides do.” Imogene pointed at the picture and gave a rapid description of technicalities that meant nothing to Sophie. She wondered if Cameron understood any of it either.
“So the main effort is the initial lift. Then it is a case of ensuring it rides the winds safely. And then can return to the earth again, of course. Otherwise, the rest is for naught. I just need to find the right combination of powers.” Her eyes narrowed thoughtfully. “How much work have the two of you done with your bond?”
“Not that much,” Cameron said shortly. “Sophie, it’s getting late. We should be leaving.”
“Is Maistre Matin done speaking with the emperor?” Sophie asked, tone cool.
“I don’t know,” Cameron said. His tone suggested that he didn’t particularly care, and Sophie bristled.
“Then perhaps we should stay here with Imogene until they send for us. I, for one, am interested in her creation. I’ve never seen anything like it.”
“I doubt anyone has,” Cameron said. He paused a moment, staring up at the navire as if trying to decide something. Sophie waited. If he was going to start another argument, then he could return to the Academe alone.
Eventually Cameron shook his head and his shoulders dropped a little. “Forgive me,” he said. “It has been a trying few days. I find myself eager for sleep tonight.”
She wasn’t sure if his apology was directed at her or at Imogene. If it were her, then it was a start, but he had somewhat farther to go before she might contemplate forgiving him.
“I find imperial dinners often have that effect on me as well,” Imogene said with a half smile. “And the navire can wait another day.” She turned to Sophie. “Your husband is correct. We should go back, find the maistre.” She grinned suddenly. “If the emperor asks you about his palace, just tell him you found it all magnificent. He doesn’t need to know that we spent most of our time here.”
Sophie rather suspected that Aristides was fully aware of what Imogene was showing them. Even if the navire was Imogene’s invention, she was an imperial mage and presumably was working on such an undertaking on the emperor’s behalf. She wouldn’t be showing it to anyone the emperor didn’t wish to know about it.
But she might as well play along with the pretense. At least until she had a better idea why they were being shown the ship. That part she needed to think on a little longer. Had Aristides decided that she and Cameron were likely to stay in Illvya? Was the ship supposed to be an enticement? Or a warning? A display of the powers of the empire? After all, one use for a ship that floated through air might be to reach an island nation more easily. Attack on a front that they couldn’t necessarily defend.
Was he warning her that Anglion would eventually be within his grasp?
She didn’t know.
Something else to worry about. Which was entirely what she didn’t need.
“Do you really want to go back and help Imogene with that . . . whatever that was?” Cameron asked when they were waiting at the front entrance to the palace for their carriage to be brought around. Henri was a little distance away, talking low voiced to Imogene.
“It’s interesting,” Sophie said. “I’d like to know more about it.”
“You do realize that such a thing is a weapon of war?”
“I’m not entirely an idiot,” she said tightly. “So yes, it occurred to me. And yes, it also occurred to me that if they make it work, then perhaps it would be Anglion that Aristides would be turning his attention to.”
“Good,” Cameron said, and then, “I have never thought you were an idiot.”
“Just a young naïve fool who didn’t know what she was saying, then?”
He winced. “I owe you an apology.”
“Yes. But I’m not sure I’m yet in the mood to hear it.” She wrapped her cloak more tightly around her. The wind had gone strong since they had arrived at the palace and the scent of rain hung in the air.
“I deserve that.” Cameron glanced toward Henri and Imogene. “But what I also wonder is whether that thing could travel far enough above the sea that sanctii wouldn’t be affected by the salt water below them. A ship full of sanctii would make a very effective invading force.”
Sophie’s eyes widened. She hadn’t thought of that. “Wouldn’t it be easier to just ship a troop of water mages over instead?”
“Maybe. But that depends on whether the solution to how to make that thing fly ends up involving sanctii or not. If it does, then you need them.”
She shook her head. “It seems unlikely. But I don’t know enough about water magic to be certain how sea water even affects them.”
“Something I think we need to find out,” Cameron said. “I—” He broke off, a smile abruptly appearing on his face. “Maistre Matin. Are you ready to depart?”
Sophie turned to see the maistre approaching them rapidly. And, in the distance, the sound of iron-shod hooves approaching. Any further speculation would have to wait.