Servants called promptly at five with a coach at the ready. The King waits for no man, they announced, when he didn’t answer at the first summons. Turold reluctantly left her side, though he had little appetite for food or the King’s banter. He could only promise to escape as soon as he could, and with considerable booty in tow: he would fill the coach floor-to-ceiling with every mask and disguise he could swipe from the palace. By midnight she would wear the Queen’s own signature masquerade along with the Duchess of Boxwood’s lace fichu!
“There’s a Duchess of Boxwood?” she asked.
“There will be tonight, because I plan to ply her with drink and fleece her blind,” he said.
“Excellent. And what’s a fichu?”
“I’ll tell you when I find one!”
From beneath the shadows of her hood, she laughed and told him to be careful. And hurry back.
As the coach pulled away, Turold removed the scrap of paper with the spell and studied it once again, still haunted by the coffee-house vision.
Winter shall wane
fair weather come again
the sun-warmed summer!
The sound unstill
the deep dead wave
is darkest longest.
One shall break
frost’s fetters
free the grain
from wonder-lock.
Each time he read it he saw new words, a different poem. The first few lines struck him as a conventional invocation, winter to spring, death to life, many spells used it. It all changed on the line “The sound unstill,” which suggested something improperly translated—too literal, perhaps. “The deep dead wave” could mean many things, but probably suggested the sleeping power of the god, deep below. “Frost’s fetters” reminded him of the vision, the goblet in the ice. If only he had been able to peer inside! Maybe then he would understand what “grain” was trapped in the “wonder-lock.”
They arrived in the middle of his reverie and servants ushered him out, where he found himself crushed between dozens of courtiers, dignitaries, and astrologers. They paraded into the dining hall, which was poorly lit and smoky from all the candles. He felt his way to a table and sat between men chattering about the price of pork (outrageous) and what they were prepared to do if it continued to soar (leave the country). Turold helped himself to a full glass of wine on the table and drank deeply, preparing himself for three courses of tedium to come.
You won’t need me here, will you? I could be of better use to you if I snooped around.
He started at the voice, which seemed to come from right behind him—or beside him? Yet no matter which way he turned he only saw endless faces that staunchly ignored him.
In here: your Shadow!
“Oh yes, of course! I suppose so, but don’t stray far. And come if I call you!”
I’ll eavesdrop on the tables and learn what I can. If nothing else, it will help me impersonate you in the days to come.
Turold watched his Shadow quiver, then slip under the table and down the hall, quickly swallowed up by the gloom. He drained his cup and found another pressed in his hands by an eager servant.
“Is there anything else I can get you, master?”
“No, this will do. But tell me: when do we eat?”
“Oh, the meal,” the servant said, with a chuckle. “The king isn’t even here yet. And once he arrives, we have the speechmaking, the toasts, the appeals, the music, the dancing, the play, the recitation, and then the parade of courses. So I would say…four, five hours?”
Turold went pale and drained his glass.
“Keep them coming,” he said, his voice weak.
“It’s a good year,” a gentleman said, gesturing to his cup. “You should drink it slower, savor the grape.”
“As long as it numbs my senses,” he shrugged.
“Your first time?”
Turold nodded, raising his glass.
“Don’t worry, there are chances to sneak away. The king rarely notices who comes and goes. You just have to be here when he arrives.”
“That’s reassuring. I’m afraid I’m not much of a connoisseur. What kind is it?”
“Ah, that’s straight from the duke’s estate,” he said, swishing his glass. “The king keeps it in a special cellar in the catacombs. Chilly year-round down there. They say the dead give it their blessing, as it tastes different after a decade or so; more mature, almost decadent. This is the only place he serves it.”
“He ages the wine among corpses?”
“It’s all carefully quarantined, nothing to worry about. Still, it does something to the wine. I’ve never tasted anything like it.”
Turold took another sip and tried to appreciate the different tones and notes. He imagined the bottles plucked from the warm sun and shoved into the darkness prematurely, there to be haunted by restless spirits who clawed at their nectar in vain. As it slipped over his tongue, he could almost feel the cold, the dread, the hopeless years barrel past. What he had assumed was delicious now seemed a bit cloying, even bordering on rancid. He spit the remainder back in the glass and set it on the table with a shiver.
“If it’s not to your taste there are other varieties, even ale, if you’d prefer,” the gentleman said, waving down a servant. “His Majesty has a fine selection of beer, kept in a deeper part of the catacombs, ice cold. Perfect for a day like this.”
He almost waved it off when the words seemed to repeat, echo in his brain. Ice-cold. Deeper. Catacombs.
Free the grain from wonder-lock.
The grain: beer! Deep in the catacombs, in “frost’s fetters!” That only left “wonder-lock,” but he would come to that, perhaps a drink would help him, a taste to clear his thoughts. He frantically requested one and a servant brought over a platter of drinks, explaining the lightness and darkness of each. Never mind—he grabbed the nearest one and drank deeply, mind and mouth searching for the clue to unlock the riddle.
“Slow down—you can’t taste it like that!” the gentleman snickered.
“I’ve never tasted anything so cold! And this comes from deep in the catacombs?”
“Yes, the deepest vault, which plunges close to freezing in winter and isn’t much warmer now. Not good for wine, but for ale, ideal. In fact, I could use a sip myself,” he said, taking a glass.
“The deep dead wave—that could mean catacombs!” Turold shouted, pounding the table. “It all makes sense. That’s where it is. This isn’t a spell at all! It’s directions!”
“My friend, pace yourself. The king hasn’t even made his speech! You’ll need a few glasses for that one,” the gentleman said, with a knowing grin.
Turold had to restrain himself, concentrating on staying in one place and not leaping out of his seat, racing through the halls, taking hold of a coach himself and tearing back to the apartment. Giacinta had to know! Instead, he had to sit here and feign interest and drink wine and applaud at speeches he couldn’t hear from the clattering of cups and coughs. As promised, the King did make speeches; he did summon musicians and actors; he did listen to people praising his reign and ancestors. It was interminable. All the more so since Turold didn’t touch another drop. No, he needed his wits clear for the rest of the night.
Across the room, he spied Lord Gramsteed lost in conversation with a shadowy figure (he could only make out his hat). No sign of Astrid, however; she must be assisting her mistress with the map, unless they had finished it already. How much did she know, and how much was she willing to tell him? Probably as little as he had shared with her (or more likely, less).
A great volley of applause, and the servants came out with plate after plate of food, circling mechanically around the tables. Despite his impatience, Turold was hungry and could use a good meal after enduring what passed for entertainment in the smoke-filled gloom. He fastened his napkin in eager preparation when a hand touched his shoulder. He looked up, but no one was there. A quick scan of the table revealed everything as it should be, with no one paying him the least attention.
Master, I’ve returned!
Of course, his Familiar! Back from its adventures.
I thought you might like to know that Lord Gramsteed just gave the gentleman at his table a golden snuffbox.
“Good for him! I hate snuff,” he responded. “So?”
It was payment for a job well done.
“What job? Did you hear him say?”
Not much…just something about ‘The Codex.’
“What do you mean, ‘The Codex’? The insects destroyed it! Giacinta saw it all. He couldn’t have stolen it!”
He didn’t; the man beside him did.
Turold squinted at him, but couldn’t make anything out but a tricorne hat and a sour expression.
“He gave the Codex to Lord Gramsteed? Are you sure?”
I merely report what I heard. But Lord Gramsteed seemed extremely pleased with himself.
“The assassins…was he responsible? To get me out of the way?” Turold muttered, shaking his head. “But no, he wouldn’t have warned me…his letter saved my life.”
Then, turning to his companion, he asked, “excuse me, do you know that gentleman…talking to Lord Gramsteed?”
“Hmm, I would hardly call him a gentleman,” he said, squinting. “Looks more like one of those spell-broker types. The kind that work clandestine magic forbidden by the Council. I hired one once…very effective.”
“A spell-broker? But he never said anything about hiring someone else.”
“Why pay one person when you can pay two?” his companion shrugged.
But of course it made sense. He wanted Turold to think he was the only person looking for the Codex. The real search was going on behind the scenes, with someone he actually trusted, one of those accursed spell-brokers. But had the spell-broker actually found it, or risked lying to Lord Gramsteed when he couldn’t find it? Or was there more than one book floating about?
“You think it’s early enough to absent myself?” Turold asked, eyeing the exit.
“Once the food is served, no one will notice. In fact, I might join you—we can share a coach. I neglected to introduce myself: my name is Guido Renaldi: the King’s Resident Violist.”
“Delighted,” Turold said, shaking his hand. “You know this place better than I do. Lead the way.”
“Follow me—and don’t look back. You know the story of Eurydice?”
“Of course. But what does that—”
“Trust me: make for the door like you’re fleeing Hades itself. Someone always sees you when you look guilty.”
