Turold tried to retrace his steps, imagining what would capture a shadow’s attention in the endless, glittering hallways. He almost wanted to ask a servant, have you seen a four-foot shadow skulking about? Answers to the name of ‘Turold’? He walked as far as he dared, since anything more would raise suspicion, and he was already a stranger here. Unfortunately, now he was hopelessly lost, having wandered down a twisting stairwell into a vast, empty room littered with portraits, most stacked nearly against one another, but a few on display. Strangely, the paintings didn’t seem to portray the exalted figures of yore, as all of them seemed out of place in a portrait (much less this room).
They were portraits of performers. Court buffoons. Musicians. Turold stopped in front of one which combined all three: a ‘dwarf’ musician doing a hand-stand while seeking applause in the viewer’s eyes. So that’s how the king saw him. It must have been a great joke to see him appointed as Astrologer Royal. In fact, that may have been how Lord Gramsteed pushed his name through in the first place: imagine, appointing him—a midget—in place of Sir Otrygg! Seeing him walk up and down the hallways wearing the cape, the hat, the medallion. The king will love it! More, at any rate, than he would stomach having to talk to Sonya Vasilyevna every day…
“Admiring your ancestors?” a voice asked.
He started, but immediately knew who it was. It was her again, Sonya Vasilyevna’s student.
“What are you doing here?” he asked.
“I came to ask you the same question. This is rather out-of-bounds for the Astrologer Royal. Aren’t you wanted in a meeting downstairs?”
“I…yes, maybe. I don’t know,” he admitted.
“You have another half hour, if not more,” she said, rolling her eyes. “They’re stuffing their faces, drinking tea by the bowl-full. Sometimes they don’t even remember to meet.”
They sized each other up, and he couldn’t help noticing how much she looked like a younger, if slightly plumper, Sonya Vasilyevna. Both had the same pulled-back hair, the same cut of clothes (all blues and blacks), the same sizing-you-up look that dismissed you after. However, where Sonya Vasilyevna was all hard edges and severity, this woman seemed cautious, yet open; her eyes were softer, and even as they judged him, they seemed to pity him, too. He never got the impression Sonya Vasilyevna shed a single tear over his fate.
“How is your Mistress? No talk of letting her out yet?” he asked.
“She keeps busy; we have plenty to occupy ourselves at present. No thanks to you.”
“I’m sorry? You think it’s my fault?” he asked, as she crossed her arms. “For what? Placing her under house arrest?”
“Nothing, and that’s the point. Because you’re so clueless, and allowed yourself to be manipulated into this position, she has to spend all her time trying to protect you,” she snapped.
“To protect me?” he scoffed. “I don’t need her protection! I appreciate all she does, but if all she can do is complain about me—”
“She never complains, which you’d know if you had half a brain,” she said, waving her finger. “You should bow down and thank her for every minute she’s spent looking after you. Time she might have spent on other, more worthy tasks…tasks she has to delegate to me and her acolytes, who lack her wisdom!”
“Look, I’m sorry, I never meant to burden anyone,” he said, backing away. “I don’t even know what I’m doing here. I’m just looking for my…well, I lost something. Must have a hole in my pocket. So I’ll just be on my way.”
“You lost your shadow, didn’t you?” she said, with a self-satisfied grin.
“My—shadow? No, I didn’t…unless, that is…have you seen it someplace?”
“Follow me,” she said, brushing past him.
He followed her out of the room and through several dim hallways to an enormous pair of doors. She produced a key and opened the nearest one, gesturing him in. The smell of food was like a second doorway: the musky heat of cured hams and bacon, earthy herbs and spices, the tang of leeks and onions. Whatever they were doing here, it was a welcome detour from more serious business. The king’s pantry was legendary, as were the meals that came out of his kitchens. As someone with a cultivated palette, Turold owed it to himself to undertake a little reconnaissance—for the good of his Familiar, of course.
“He’s over there,” she said, pointing him out.
His Familiar was in the far corner munching loudly, the various courses spread out on the floor like a picnic. Turold experienced the uncanny effect that came with seeing yourself in another body, gobbling down food that didn’t fill your stomach, and looking vaguely silly while doing so (is that really what he looked like?).
“I saw him an hour ago and trailed him, thinking it was you,” she said, with a chuckle. “But when he walked through the walls I realized you had an errant spell on your hands. I came as quickly as I could.”
“Why? I mean, thank you…though I’m surprised you wanted to help.”
“It’s my job to help you while she’s working on the map.”
“Your job? But I thought—”
“I didn’t like you? I don’t, particularly,” she said, with a shrug. “But what’s that have to do with anything? I serve my Mistress, just as you served yours. Nothing personal.”
“I see,” he nodded. “All the same, I appreciate your help. Perhaps I can return the favor? You’re having trouble with your map—the ones with the stones? I’m rather handy with maps.”
“I’m here to help you, but I highly doubt you can help me,” she said, looking aggrieved. “Just collect your little shadow friend and let’s be off. I have other business at Court.”
Turold ran over to the Familiar who acknowledged him with a burp and the offer of a chicken leg.
“I thought you were supposed to stay close and memorize my routine! Who said you were supposed to fill your stomach? And you’re a shadow–why do you need to eat?”
“It’s your fault, you taught me to do this,” it muttered, reclaiming the leg. “Your only thought was for food this morning, so many delicious meals I’ve never tasted. And with the king’s toilette taking the better part of a year, I didn’t see the harm of sneaking off in search of some. I planned to share it with you, of course. In fact, you should try this: a delicious smoked capon–”
“What if someone saw you? And someone did. She did!”
“And who’s that? Quite pretty, whoever she is.”
“Never mind that. She was kind enough to lead me to you. Someone else might have reported you—or me—to the guards.”
“I don’t think she likes you. The way she’s frowning at you; at us. How do you know she didn’t report us?”
“We’ll know soon enough. Now come along,” Turold commanded.
The Familiar gave a petulant sigh of disappointment, then vanished into the flat projection of his shadow. Turold lifted his arms and made various back and forth movements which the shadow obeyed without flaw.
“Impressive spell,” she said, watching him dance. “So where will you be tomorrow?”
“Still hunting down the Codex. I have a lead,” he whispered.
“About that…” she said, lowering her voice. “If you find it, don’t bring it to her. It’s not safe. Bring it to me, here, in the Gardens. I can give you directions to a secluded spot in the Maze.”
Turold tried not to betray his suspicion. Sonya Vasilyevna had been very specific: don’t bring it to her where her students could see. He couldn’t trust them.
“You want me to bring it here? Wouldn’t it be safer far away from the court and Lord Gramsteed? What about the abandoned Rookery?”
She shook her head vigorously, clearly alarmed.
“No—not there! Listen, I can’t tell you what I know. Not here, at any rate. But you can’t bring it there—or to my Mistress. People are watching.”
“You mean, spies?”
“Yes…but there are worse things than spies or turncoats. I can’t even confide in my Mistress, she wouldn’t understand.”
“I see,” he said, frowning. “Very well, as soon as I have it, I’ll contact you. It might take a few days. My contacts are skittish, possibly unreliable.”
“Turold, I’m not a fool,” she said, abruptly. “You don’t trust me. I know you won’t bring me the Codex.”
“And why should I? This is all so sudden…and yes, I don’t even know you, much less trust you. You haven’t even told me your name.”
“Oh—you’re right, I haven’t. I suppose I didn’t trust you, either. I’m Astrid. Is there any way we can start over again, put aside our mutual distrust?”
“Tell me what you were doing with the map, for starters. And why you dislike me so much.”
Astrid mouthed the word “no” but quickly swallowed it back. She knew that it was either this or nothing else, so the “no” became a “very well,” though every syllable seemed wrenched from her throat.
“She told me not to, so don’t say a word. The map…we’re trying to align the six portals in each district of the city. We have to balance it precisely, otherwise we’ll lose control and we might never close them again.”
“Portals? You mean–to other worlds?”
“Something is trying to enter, we’ve all read the signs,” she nodded. “We have to close them, one by one, in exactly the right order. There’s no margin for error. The slightest mistake, and they stay wide open. Like opening all the doors and windows in the dead of winter.”
He thought of Giacinta’s warning about the Fallen God and his Messengers. Is that were they came from? Did Sir Otrygg force open the gates—just a crack—to let in the smallest emissaries of doom?
“If we had the Codex, and knew how it worked, we would no longer have to guess,” she continued. “But if certain people knew, they would discourage this course of action. Not everyone wants them closed.”
“Lord Gramsteed?”
“I don’t know who she fears, but I’ve seen things—I can’t speak of it now. I only beg you, if you find it, bring it here. At least so we can talk and decide how to approach my mistress.”
“Can I bring someone? An associate, just to make sure?”
“Yes, that’s acceptable. Though I promise to come alone—no surprises,” she said, offering her hand.
He took her hand and promised, though had no intention of bringing it before the book was translated and he had read every word.
“As for my dislike of you, that goes back much farther than our current business,” she admitted, looking pained. “You see, your master…promised to take me on as his apprentice. He promised Sonya Vasilyevna, too.”
“Hildigrim?” he said, incredulously. “But he’s never taken on a female apprentice! He’s barely even civil to women in general, your Mistress least of all!”
“Not civil?” she laughed. “I would call an offer of marriage considerably more than civil.”
“You’re joking!” Turold gasped, almost leaping in place. “No, I don’t believe it. They hated each other. I’m sure you’ve seen if yourself. She voted against him at the trial!”
“Turold, I don’t have time to bring you up to speed on their entire relationship!” she said, her eyes flashing. “Believe it or not, as you like. We can discuss it another time. You asked me why I disliked you, and here it is: he met you and decided that you were more worthy of his intention. He reneged on his promise and she broke off the engagement. They didn’t get married…over you.”
Turold felt the world tumble beneath his feet, sending him spinning towards the moon and beyond the reach of the stars. He tried to respond but had nothing to say, as piece after piece of the curious past suddenly locked into place. No wonder she voted against him!
“You made a promise, so honor that promise,” she said, collecting herself. “Perhaps I can learn to put aside my dislike and see you as Turold, the man, and not the person who destroyed my future. I must leave you now. Good luck.”
With that, she slipped out of the room and quietly closed the door. His thoughts crowded around him, making the large, empty room seem unbearably claustrophobic.
