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  If so, he did not pursue it, “Go on,” he said, equally to Telmaine and Vladimer.

  Telmaine did. Though she thought with some despair it seemed a wildly coincidental tale, a fire breaking out in the warehouse at just the right moment to distract her daughter’s guard. No mention of her own walk through the inferno. She prayed that it did not differ too greatly from anything else the archduke might have heard.

  It seemed so wrong that she could not tell them what Ishmael di Studier had sacrificed to save her and Florilinde from the flames.

  Vladimer said, “You’ll notice a pattern in this. The Rivermarch. Now warehouse thirty-one. Our enemies like fire, as a weapon.”

  The other men made noncommittal noises. The archduke said, “I heard about that fire. Malachi is keeping me apprised of the investigation.” He considered a moment, and then leaned toward her. “A word of advice, Lady Telmaine: you might be best to admit to your accomplices. Given the circumstances, it will likely not go too ill with them, or with you.”

  What he meant to imply, she realized after a moment’s bewilderment, was that he thought she had had others set the fire for her, as a diversion. While she gulped, he said, in that same quietly warning tone, “I am given to understand that some of your personal effects were recovered from the hands of people from the area.”

  The reticule and jewelry she had lost during the rescue, including a distinctive silver love knot that Bal had given her during their courtship. Were the archduke and his agents assuming that those had been her bribes? Her mouth was very, very dry at the thought the public agents had been speaking to people who were on the Lower Docks. She’d thought she could not possibly have been sonned walking out of the flames, because of the chaos and turbulence, but suppose—

  In undermining her listeners’ disbelief in the potent and strange, she was undermining her own best protection.

  “I would be p-pleased to talk to the superintendent, should—should his inquiries not satisfactorily conclude. But I know—no more than I have told you.” Should she appeal for their protection, in the name of her sex and class? She had no idea.

  Shaken, she stumbled on with her account, which grew yet wilder toward its conclusion. Receiving word of Ishmael di Studier’s supposed death in prison. Being persuaded by her husband that they should take the day train down to the summerhouse because—because Balthasar strongly believed in Ishmael’s innocence and Vladimer’s importance, because Balthasar had past experience in a small way of being an agent. It all made her Bal seem desperately reckless, whereas while the decision had been his, driven by his profound sense of civic duty, it had been made with knowledge from both herself and Ishmael that there were Shadowborn mages at work in the city.

  “But why did Balthasar take you with him, Telmaine?” Claudius said, worried. He had been a friend of her father’s; she knew he felt protective of her.

  She pressed gloved hands together. “Lord Claudius, you have no doubt heard that my dear husband is a terrible marksman. Someone had to go with him, for his protection.”

  He frowned, gently disapproving. “And what did you find, when you reached the summerhouse?”

  With no guidance, not even a twitch of a lip, from Vladimer, Telmaine forged ahead, once more eliding the contribution made by her magic. She and Balthasar had found a man who resembled Balthasar’s estranged brother at Vladimer’s bedside, while Vladimer’s entire household lay unconscious around them. The intruder had threatened both Balthasar and Vladimer. She had wounded him with a borrowed pistol and Balthasar had fought him bodily, and while he was thus distracted, Ishmael di Studier had stepped in the door and delivered the death shot. Dead, the assassin had appeared quite different than he had when living.

  “In what way, Lady Telmaine?”

  She swallowed nausea, remembering. “It was a—a hideous sight, Your Grace. Baron Strumheller’s last shot had—split his skull—it was mostly gone, above the brow. But his face was still whole and no longer resembled Lysander Hearne in the least.”

  “Lady Telmaine,” the archduke said, slowly, “if I were to ask you to take an oath that that is what you witnessed, as if in a court of law, would you still say so?”

  To that she could. “Without the least hesitation, Your Grace.”

  Did she imagine the archduke’s sigh? “Go on.”

  “And then Lord Vladimer woke up,” she said, omitting mention of Vladimer’s initial reflex, which was to hold a revolver to Ishmael’s head. “We explained to him what had happened, and why we were there, and he ordered my husband and Baron Strumheller to the Borders to prepare for an invasion, and I asked to accompany him back to Minhorne, because of my children.”

  “How did Strumheller escape from prison?”

  “With the assistance of the prison apothecary,” Vladimer said, “who declared him dead.”

  The archduke grimaced slightly. She could not tell him how near Ishmael had then been to death from overspending his magic to save her from the fire. “There were two attempts on his life while he was in prison,” she said.

  It did not, she realized, help. “You are quite certain he was Strumheller?” the archduke said to Vladimer.

  Vladimer smiled briefly. “He had all Strumheller’s nerve.” He didn’t elaborate.

  “What happened at the railway station?” the archduke said, his head twitching toward his brother.

  She told it, as she had observed, once more omitting that part that was hers and magical. The archduke would surely believe that Vladimer had dispatched both assassins—he knew his brother’s accomplishments—and he might be persuaded that the Shadowborn had overreached himself in his alarm.

  “You concur with this, Vladimer?” the archduke said.

  There was a silence long enough for Telmaine to wonder, if Vladimer betrayed her, what she would do, take flight, or face the archduke and the ruin of her life square.

  “Vladimer?” said the archduke, casting toward his brother.

  “Yes,” said Vladimer, rousing himself. “There is a threat, I am certain of that. Janus, I will pursue these Shadowborn with all my skills and resources, but the Borders need the ability to defend themselves properly. I told Strumheller I would get a ducal order to allow him to raise forces. I’m asking you to suspend the order of six twenty-nine.”

  Even the most indifferently tutored lady knew of the Borders uprising and civil war that followed, and the ducal order that had come with the peace. The order of six twenty-nine restricted the standing forces that could be maintained by the nobility, especially the Borders baronies, lest they be held in insurrection.

  “You told Strumheller that you would get a suspension of six twenty-nine,” the archduke said, in a tone so uninflected as to be ominous. To Telmaine’s surprise and perturbation, Vladimer seemed unaware of his misstep. A soft brush of sonn showed him braced in the chair, head lowered. Overcome with faintness, she feared. If the archduke realized, he did not—whether out of consideration for Vladimer’s pride or out of annoyance—acknowledge it. “I’ll take your word that Strumheller is who he claims to be,” he said, narrowly. “I’ll grant he’s done well by you and the Strumheller barony, but you know I’ve never shared your trust in him. The man’s a mage. You can’t convince me that he didn’t influence the man who helped him escape. Giving him a ducal order to raise forces in the Borders would be—”

  Telmaine bit the fingertip of her glove, stifling her urge to give the archduke a piece of her mind. Which would be disastrous, since most of the things she knew about Ishmael di Studier, including the greatness of his heart and the depths of his loyalties, she knew only because she had touched him as a mage touches another, mind and heart.

  Vladimer interrupted before the archduke found the word he sought. “Janus, Strumheller has not influenced me, if that is what you are so carefully not implying. He has neither the power nor the malevolence.” A shudder ran through the last word—he had but lately encountered one who had both. “He’s as loyal to you as I am. And
there’s no one knows the Borders, knows the Shadowlands, knows the danger, better.”

  “I’ve already signed the order of succession recognizing Reynard di Studier as Baron Strumheller.”

  Vladimer jolted upright. “What? When did that arrive? They’d barely have had word of his death.”

  “A courier came by day train,” the archduke said, his tone making Telmaine wince; powerful men did not like being placed on the defensive. “The haste was a touch indecent, yes, but there seemed no reason to delay. The report of di Studier’s death came from Malachi himself.”

  “Reynard di Studier’s not the man for this. Please, Janus, I’m begging you: rescind that order of succession. Quash those charges. Give Strumheller a chance to—a chance to—a chance—” The archduke moved even as he sonned, catching Vladimer as he slid forward, and propping him carefully away from his right shoulder. Vladimer muttered something. The archduke’s reply was tart, for all the words themselves were inaudible. Telmaine thought she deciphered utterly pigheaded.

  “I will give it the most careful consideration,” the archduke said, straightening, his steadying hand on Vladimer’s sound shoulder. “Once I call the physician.”

  He circumvented further argument by going himself to the door to speak to the footmen outside, and staying there until the doctor arrived. The physician obviously had prior experience of Vladimer, effectively deflecting objections while he organized footmen to carry him. Telmaine heard the archduke quietly ordering the halls to be cleared. “I’ll be along,” he promised his brother and the physician as they left.

  Returning, the archduke brushed his hand down the chairback, and sat down, frowning and wiping his fingers on a handkerchief. “Have that cleaned, once we’re done here,” he said to the remaining footman, and dismissed him, turning his attention decisively back to his adviser. “Well, Claudius, now what do I do? You know Dimi: he’s highly strung and this has to be quite the wildest story he’s ever laid before me, but he’s never once cried fire without something burning. And he’s barely escaped an assassination attempt—two, if that uncanny illness of his were indeed sorcery. But he’s asking for a ducal order suspending six twenty-nine in the Borders—and that will not make my dukes at all happy,” he finished, in tones of wry understatement.

  “Your Grace,” said Casamir Blondell, “surely you do not have to decide immediately. I can investigate further—”

  “No,” the archduke told him, heavily, “I’ve never doubted Vladimer’s judgment in these matters, and I will not start now. And I’ve no reason to doubt any of the barons. But curse it, why’d Vladimer tell di Studier that he’d get this done before he said anything to me? If I don’t do it and there’s trouble, there’ll be yet more bad blood between the Borders and the north.”

  Telmaine chewed the finger of her glove until her teeth bruised skin.

  “Vladimer’s right that di Studier’s done journeyman’s work strengthening the Borders defense, and kept it within the limits of six twenty-nine, or as near as is not worth mentioning. You can be sure I’d have heard otherwise if not. Vladimer trusts the man—as much as Vladimer trusts anyone—and in all honesty I don’t think there’s undue i nfluence working. But di Studier’s still a mage, and”—this to Casamir Blondell—“accused of sorcery.”

  Blondell said nothing. If he felt any chagrin at his false accusation, it did not show on his face. Nor did he retract it.

  “What if you were to address the ducal order for Strumheller to Reynard di Studier?” Claudius said. “You’ve already signed the order of succession in good faith, and there’s every reason not to rescind it until Ishmael di Studier’s legal status is resolved. Even if Vladimer denies the sorcery, there’s still the murder of Tercelle Amberley in question. Her betrothed won’t be satisfied with quashed charges, and if there’s going to be trouble, as Vladimer seems to think, you can’t risk any conflict with the Mycenes.”

  “Reynard di Studier,” the archduke said slowly. “I don’t know the man well; he keeps to the Borders. He’s, what, three or four years the younger—it’s the sister who’s much younger, isn’t it? Is he solid?”

  “He’s no Shadowhunter,” Claudius admitted. “In all truth, Janus, I’d be less happy about it if it weren’t for Strumheller’s—Ishmael di Studier’s—having organized the defenses for the last decade. But I recommend you send the ducal order to Reynard. Even if nothing comes of it, you’d find out what he’s made of.”

  “Except Dimi promised it to Ishmael di Studier,” the archduke said, with a sigh. “Well, he’s overstepped himself there, and I’ll have to have that out with him when he’s fit for it. I’ll write the ducal order for Strumheller to Reynard di Studier, and I’d best send an agent after Ishmael di Studier. Get him back here to sort out the legalities, and keep him out of trouble in the Borders.”

  Telmaine, forgotten, waited in suppressed fury until they had left the room. “That rat bastard,” she breathed. “How dare he! Ishmael’s spent years, blood, and pain in his service.” Just in time she stopped herself for reaching out for Ishmael with her magic; he’d have no protection from her rage.

  I might change his mind, came the thought, half bidden. Horrified, she rejected it, but it crept back into her mind like a foul smell. She might indeed change the archduke’s mind, but would he know it? Would anyone else guess it? Claudius? Balthasar? Ishmael? A shiver passed through her, with the sense of how corrupt she had already become, how much magic had already degraded her, if only the thought that they might catch her stayed her from forcing the mind of her ruler. No matter that it was for the sake of those she loved.

  All that she had to her credit was that she would not, even for the sake of those she loved.

  But she must warn Ishmael that agents would be waiting for him in Strumheller. She paused a moment to pass her mage sense carefully over the palace. She had been taken by surprise at the train station; she must not be so again. Nothing seemed out of order. Then she made her way along the corridors to the rooms that had been her and her family’s refuge.

  It had been most thoroughly cleaned out, even to her own dresses and toiletries. The purge was the mark of Merivan, at her most officiously efficient. Telmaine would cordially detest her eldest sister if not condemned to understand her. Had Merivan been a man, she would have been a superb barrister and no doubt, in time, a judge. As a woman, cleaving to propriety as a principle, she seethed with boredom unrelieved by childbearing and the endless social round.

  Merivan ought to have a secret, Telmaine thought. It would make her life ever so much more interesting.

  She rustled over to the armchair and sank into it. Sitting, she realized how weary she was. She could not sit long, or she would fall asleep. She swept her mage sense out again, finding Lord Vladimer, and the archduke, close by each other now. Both their vitalities were distinctive, yet more alike than their very different temperaments would suggest. Was blood relationship evident in the texture of vitality? She had never thought to wonder. She turned her head slightly in the direction of Merivan’s home, a mile distant, and extended her senses, seeking, and finding, the two living presences more familiar than any other, her little daughters. Those seemed quite distinct, Florilinde in her boldness, Amerdale in her curiosity. Both marred now with unhappiness and anxiety in a way that hurt her to sense. She caressed them gently, unfelt, making them a soft, unheard promise: soon. Soon I will be there. Soon we will go home. Soon this will all end. Soon.

  Ishmael di Studier on the Borders Express seemed but a little farther away, so distinct was his presence to her. His spirit still had that banked-ember heat she had warmed herself against, though her sense of his magic was dim, crumbled charcoal. There was no justice that he should lose, and she should keep, what was so precious to him and so burdensome to her. She had said, when first they discussed magic, that she would gladly give him all of hers—and she would have. But that was not the way magic worked: his was merely first- rank, hers possibly as much as sixth, when the str
ongest living Lightborn mage was said to be eighth-rank. Generous as ever, he had guided her magic, gifted her with his learning and best understanding of its structure, and finally overreached his own meager powers to save her.

  She would carry all those gifts, and her sense of him, next to her heart for as long as she lived, and if it was improper in a married woman, so be it.

  she whispered in his mind.

  She sensed his sudden wakening, and then his movement as he sat up and reached across to shake the man dozing beneath a quilt on the couch next to his chair—her husband, Balthasar Hearne.

  “Telmaine,” Ishmael said, speaking aloud in his distinctive Borders accent. “How good it is t’hear from you. Are you in th’city?”

 

  He sighed; she felt him settle his frame deeper into his own armchair, shaken gently with the pulse of the train. “Well,” he said, “th’order’s gone out, and that’s the important part of it. I’d a worry that th’archduke would not be sure of Vladimer, with th’ensorcellment, but it’s only me he doesn’t trust.”

  She had been trying, so hard, not to let him know that. Foolish to think she could, when he’d lived with society’s judgment against his magic all his adult life.

  She sensed his amusement. “Telmaine, if I cannot outfox a city agent in my own lands, a drafty cell’s no less than I deserve.” She nearly protested—the last drafty cell had nearly been the death of him. “But please be so good as t’let my lawyers know that th’charges still need answered.” She felt his attention shift. “Your husband asks, how are th’little ones?”