Turold reached her apartment quickly despite—or perhaps, because of—the panic and disorder on the streets. Most people weren’t going anywhere at the moment, merely standing around and whispering in grave tones about the Archives. Also about other strange events they had witnessed throughout the week: swarms of insects massing at the city gates; a strange figure who asked for directions to a place that didn’t exist; a frigid cold that seemed to descend on the city just after midnight, only to dissipate by the first light of morning. Some said it was the astrologers’ doing. They had pried too deep into dark secrets that were never meant to be unearthed. Others blamed the king himself, who was said to have godless debauches that had to be answered with blood. As they spoke some of them looked at Turold with fear; he, too, was a sign of terrible things to come.
He presented himself at Sonya Vasilyevna door where a maid took his name and vanished. As the minutes ticked away, he wondered how much he should trust her. What would his Master have done? Clearly he did trust her, enough to marry her, at any rate. If only he could speak to him now, just for a few minutes, even to ask a single question. His Master wasn’t perfect, and made his share of mistakes, but they were the right kind of mistakes…that is, the kind that looked distinguished in hindsight. He saw traps and betrayals where most people would make their beds. Small wonder he never slept.
The door opened and Astrid appeared with a terse smile, staring him down.
“Astrid? I was looking for—”
“I regret she’s not in at the moment. Come, walk with me,” she said, taking his arm.
She literally pulled him off the stoop and dragged him down the street, quickening her pace with every step. Turold had to jog to keep up, and when he asked her why they were running away, she said something about the weather.
“Very drafty today, I noticed. And cold. Much colder than usual.”
“Is it? I didn’t notice. But wait a minute, how can your Mistress not be in? She’s under house arrest!”
“I meant she was sleeping. Not to be disturbed,” she said, smiling blandly. “I haven’t seen you in such a long time, I do hope we have time to catch up.”
When Turold finally began dragging his feet and insisted she give him a proper explanation, she pulled him into an alleyway and held up her finger. They waited in silence for several minutes, and when nothing happened, and no one appeared, she took him to task.
“Why in the world did you call on Sonya Vasilyevna?”
“Haven’t you heard about the Archives? I was just there, and there was this man, and I almost died, and…this is over my head, I need her help!”
“You can’t speak with her about this. About anything. If she comes to you, tell her as little as possible. Lie,” she said, eyes large.
“Funny…she said much the same about you. About all of her acolytes.”
“Turold, I know you don’t trust me, but I’ve been completely honest with you,” she said, leading him deeper into the alley. “I wanted to visit you this morning, but I couldn’t get out. I’m just glad I intercepted you before you could get to her. There’s so much you don’t know.”
“Why were we running? Why couldn’t we speak normally?”
She gestured him to a crumbling stairwell that led to a walkway beside the river. As they descended, she kept looking back, certain to see someone following them any second.
“Her hearing is preternaturally sharp. She’s heard things, even whispers, from down the street. I think we’re out of earshot here, but only just.”
“I thought you were worried about spies in her apartment; not about her spying,” he said.
She crooked her arm around his, leaning into him like a lover. When this surprised him, she gave him a nudge and whispered, “we’re less suspicious this way.” They walked along the river, which flowed gently and belied the devastation Turold had witnessed less than an hour before. After a few minutes of silence, she asked him, “What’s her favorite fruit?”
“Who, Sonya Vasilyevna? How in the world would I know?” he said, with a laugh.
“You wouldn’t. Only her most intimate circle would. Not an outsider. It’s peaches, by the way.”
“So?”
“Last night, when she asked for something to eat, I prepared a plate of her favorites, including the best peaches I could find at the market,” she continued, walking briskly now. “But when I presented this to her, she scowled in displeasure and told me to take them away. She only ate the pickles. In all my years with her, I’ve never known her to ignore peaches for pickles.”
“Maybe she got tired of them? Tastes change, after all.”
“This isn’t a question of taste, but personality. Besides, have you ever woke up one morning and said to yourself, I rather fancy a pickle? They’re disgusting!”
“I actually like them,” he said, sheepishly. “But I suppose they’re something you either love or hate. Is there anything else?”
“So much else,” she snapped, wrenching his arm. “Remember the map and the stones? How we keep trying to find the balance that would close the portals?”
“Yes, of course. Did you have a breakthrough?”
“On the contrary. Bettina, one of the acolytes, balanced the entire east side of the city. Two of the portals closed! However, when she showed this to Sonya Vasilyevna, she became cross and said she had fatally misjudged their position. Later, as she predicted, the portals re-opened. Bettina admitted her mistake.”
Turold sensed this had tremendous importance, but failed to grasp it. The acolyte made a mistake, Sonya Vasilyevna knew better, what of it? How many times had he tried to get the better of his own Master, only to learn, painfully, the limitations of his knowledge and experience?
“However, I watched her closely,” Astrid said, with a triumphant grin. “When she thought no one was looking, she slipped a new stone on the map that canceled the others out. She never mentioned this. Later, I noticed her subtly negating our calculations, nudging stones out of place, even recording them incorrectly.”
“Why would she do that? Wasn’t this all her idea? Why would she be destroying her own work?” he asked.
She stopped dead at this point, pulling him close.
“We need to pretend to kiss. Don’t really kiss me (I’ll punch you). Just in case we’re being watched.”
Reluctantly, he mimed kissing her until she slid her lips to his neck, pretending to nibble on his ear.
“You’re right, it was her idea. But two days ago, her ideas changed. She became moody, perverse. That’s when she started moving the stones. She doesn’t want us to close the portals. She wants them open.”
“But why?”
“Listen to me: two days ago she had a visitor. I don’t know who, I wasn’t there. But the maid said he was a strange-looking gentleman. They went into a room together and he came out ten or so minutes later, and she never mentioned him to any of us. I only learned after bribing the maid with a month’s salary and my favorite necklace.”
“Did he wear a tricorne hat?” he asked.
“Maybe—who knows?” she said, scowling. “But whoever he was, or whatever he said, Sonya Vasilyevna is no longer herself. She wants us to fail. We can’t trust her anymore. You can’t tell her anything about the Codex, or whatever you came to tell her today.”
“But I should tell you, is that it?” he said, pulling away.
“That’s up to you. But I’ve told you everything, and I’ll tell you even more if you ask. I don’t ask for a similar confidence, but I do ask you, beg you, not to give her any more information. If she’s dangerous, she already knows too much.”
He hesitated, trying to read her face the way he once read people on the street as a cutpurse. Her features were stubborn, but earnest; determined, but desperate. He probably couldn’t trust her, and she would no doubt find a way to use whatever he told her against him, but for now, he did trust her, or at least believed her to be telling the truth.
“Very well, then tell me this: does she know why I became Astrologer Royal? The real reason?” he asked.
Astrid hesitated, looked pained. She opened her mouth to give a false answer, but cut it off, warring against her better judgment.
“She…she used her influence to secure it. She wanted you to have it.”
“She did? But I know she wanted it for herself!”
“No, that was all pretense, a disguise. It had to be you. We all worked tirelessly to see it through.”
“Do you know why?”
“No, not entirely,” she said, flushing slightly. “But I do know she thought…or rather, she had it on good authority that whoever followed Sir Otrygg would die. That the position was cursed. So it had to be someone…please forgive me, Turold, these are only her words…expendable. Someone she wouldn’t miss and could do without.”
Turold withdrew his arm and walked blindly ahead, fighting a powerful urge to toss himself into the river and save her, and the curse, the trouble. Astrid ran after him, trying to apologize and bring him back, but he brushed her off. Of course, by saying this, he now trusted her completely, which only made things worse. He wanted to hate her, for her to be wrong, to catch her in the snares of deceit.
“Turold, I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have told you,” she said, keeping pace. “I just wanted you to believe me. But listen, I—I don’t think you’re expendable. That’s why I’m here. I need your help. I can’t do this without you.”
He stopped, his anger and insult slowly giving way to another more powerful emotion: fear. If Sonya Vasilyevna expected him to die, then she probably had a good reason to think so; and therefore, he probably would. He suddenly wondered if she had orchestrated his mishap in the Archives. Had he truly escaped death, or was this all part of her plan?
“But you told me yourself—you resent me,” he said, turning to meet her.
“No, not really…I just convinced myself I should. I realize Sonya Vasilyevna had her own reasons for wanting me to hate you. We’ve both been her pawns, moving dutifully across the board. Perhaps now we can push back?”
He gave a dry laugh, wondering how anyone could push her, or Lord Gramsteed, or any of them. But maybe if they worked together…
“Can you bring me a copy of the map?” he asked her, offering his arm.
“Yes, I think I can manage that, but I’ll need some time; I can’t trust my colleagues,” she said, taking it. “They’re suspicious of Sonya Vasilyevna, too, but they’re also competitive…they might rat me out.”
“Let’s meet tomorrow morning in the gardens. I have someone I’d like you to meet,” he said, strolling forward.
“Your Familiar? We’ve already met.”
“No, I think it’s safe to say you’ve never met anyone like this,” he said, with a wink.
