Behind them was Algretto’s long-suffering wife, a rather plain woman in a dress of muted color under a long shawl, escorted by Reynard. He was paying her all the courteous attention due a lady of her station, despite attempts from the more boisterous members of the party to distract him. Nicholas smiled to himself. Reynard, despite his protests to the contrary, was a gentleman to his bones.
Behind them trailed Octave.
He wore a plain dark suit, without the ostentatious opera cape this time. If he had recognized Reynard, he might have given some sign by now. The man they had encountered at Coldcourt the night before would have, Nicholas thought, but there was no knowing how closely the golem’s personality had matched the real Octave’s.
He seemed to be the last member of the party. Everset had already told Reynard he intended to stay behind. Vearde must have opted out as well and as an opera singer Ilian Isolde could not afford to expose her throat to the night air.
The first group reached the temple and Amelind Danyeli called out gaily, "Does it matter where we sit, my dear?"
Madame Everset glanced back at Octave, but he gave her no indication, one way or the other. She answered, "No, dear, it doesn’t matter."
Two footmen were stationed a short distance down the terrace to answer any calls for service. The guests found seats with a great deal of shuffling back and forth and some subtle jockeying for position on Belennier’s part. Octave reached the temple and stood framed in the entrance, a slight contemptuous smile on his pale face. His appearance was subtly disreputable: frayed cuffs, a cravat that was distinctly gray in the lamplight. Nicholas wondered whether the effect was intentional. Octave stroked his unkempt beard and stared at the people around the table.
It wasn’t until everyone was seated that he came forward into the temple. Most of the guests seemed to regard him as a hired entertainer; they chatted among themselves, Belennier flirting with Danyeli, Danyeli punishing Algretto with subtle jibes for ignoring her, Algretto parrying with a faintly superior smile, and Danyell’s young escort fighting for some sort of notice from someone. Crouching in the darkness behind the solid bulk of the urn, cold and damp seeping up through his boots from the stone flags, Nicholas was still reminded of why he didn’t much care for society. It had its own predators, just like the streets of Riverside, but they dealt their blows with words, gestures, expressions. Here there were no allies, only enemies, and yet everyone conducted themselves as though they were the dearest of companions. Nicholas hadn’t been oblivious to it, but he had felt as if it all took place on another plane of existence which he could view but not interact with. Not that anyone in his right mind would wish to. He preferred the world where enemies were enemies and war was war, and the blows cut to the bone.
Madame Everset was torn between attending her guests and keeping one eye on Octave; it was obvious she was anxious for the circle to start. Reynard was keeping one eye on Octave also, but in a far more subtle fashion, while carrying on a light conversation with Madame Algretto.
Madame Everset, her voice pitched a little too high from anxiety, said abruptly, "Do we begin, Doctor?"
The others looked toward her, some startled, some amused.
Octave said, "We begin, Madame." He was standing behind his empty chair now, facing the others, his back to the wide gap between the pillars that marked the entrance to the temple.
Algretto, probably resenting the sudden cessation of attention from himself, drawled, "I, personally, am an unbeliever in this sort of fantasy, Doctor. Do you really propose to make our good hostess’s late brother appear among us?"
Madame Everset winced and Nicholas made the mental note, discover the history of the dead brother. Her face was white in the lamplight and the skin beneath her eyes bruised by fatigue. Nicholas had assumed any signs of strain were due to being married to Captain Everset; now it was obvious Madame had other concerns. It seemed less and less as if she had sought Octave out simply for the societal coup of holding a circle at a salon party. He wondered if perhaps Octave had sought her out, instead.
The doctor said, "Belief is unnecessary." His voice was almost the same as the golem’s, perhaps a trifle lower in pitch. Nicholas reminded himself again that this might be an entirely different person from the golem he had met. Its reactions were nothing to judge the real man by.
"Is it?" Algretto smiled, prepared to enjoy baiting Octave and plaguing his obviously anxious hostess. "I thought it essential to this sort of. . . enterprise."
"Your thought was inaccurate." Octave was unruffled. He was in his own element and confident. He had his hand in the pocket of his frock coat and there was something about his stance that was not quite natural. Nicholas might have suspected a pistol, but somehow he didn’t think Octave would carry a weapon. Or not that sort of weapon.
Algretto was not accustomed to being parried with such unconcern. Eyes narrowed, he said, "If you would care to word it thus. Your tone is insulting, Doctor. Though what you are a doctor of, exactly, has never been specified."
Madame Algretto sighed audibly, Amelind Danyell tittered, and Belennier looked bored. Madame Everset tried to interject, saying, "Really, I’m sure no harm was—"
"Really, Algretto," Reynard said, managing to sound as if the subject both amused and wearied him. "Poetry is your field of expertise. Why don’t you stick with that and let the good doctor carry on?"
Algretto’s eyes went hooded. There was nothing of outright insult in the words, but Reynard was a master of insinuation. The poet said, "I hadn’t thought you were the type to be interested in poetry, or this spirit nonsense, Morane."
"Oh, I don’t know poetry, but I know what I like."
"Then why are you here?"
"I’m here because I was invited. I often am, you know. Everset and I are the dearest of friends. Why are you here?"
Octave was obviously enjoying the confrontation, a smile playing about his pale lips. Belennier said, "Really, gentlemen, surely it’s not—"
Watching his opponent intently, Algretto said, "Perhaps to lend a badly needed air of artistic integrity to the proceedings. But I suppose, after hearing what is said of you, you are unfamiliar with the subject of integrity."
"Perhaps," Reynard agreed, smiling gently. "After hearing about your performance of your latest epic at Countess Averae’s literary evening, I think you might be better qualified to lend advice on monkey posturing."
Algretto came to his feet with a curse, knocking back his chair.
With reflexes honed by years of dueling, Reynard stood just as abruptly, his elbow knocking Doctor Octave’s arm and sending the spiritualist stumbling back a step. In an unconscious gesture to keep his balance, Octave’s hand came out of his pocket.
Nicholas was smiling to himself, thinking, good old Reynard, when Octave’s hand came up and he saw the object the spiritualist was clutching. There was only time for a moment’s glimpse, before Octave hurriedly stuffed it back into concealment. Reynard was saying to Algretto, "Sorry, old fellow, didn’t realize you’d take it personally. My apologies."
Algretto was hardly appeased but it would have been the worst manners to refuse the offered apology. He managed to nod grudgingly and sit down as Reynard gravely excused himself to Octave for jostling him and took his own seat again.
Nicholas’s smile had died. The object had appeared to be a metallic ball. It had looked very much like one of the models of Edouard Viller’s apparatus, except it was much smaller.
It can’t be, he told himself. The others were destroyed. He had seen the Crown Investigators smash them to bits himself. It had been Edouard’s last experiment in combining natural philosophy and magic, begun from a desire to communicate with his dead wife, whom Nicholas knew only as a portrait in the main salon at Coldcourt. By itself, a device for speaking to the dead, whether it worked or not, was not necromancy. But Count Montesq had made it appear as though Edouard had murdered a woman in an attempt to perform magic, fulfilling the legal definition of necromancy. And
when the court had discovered what the device had been meant to do, Edouard had looked all the more guilty.
But how had Octave gotten his hands on one of the devices? Every bit of Edouard’s surviving work, his notes, his journals, the last intact models of the apparatus, everything the Crown hadn’t burned was at Coldcourt. Nicholas cursed silently. Perhaps there was some sort of prototype we never knew about. Arisilde Damal would know, if anyone would. He had worked most closely with Edouard in the initial studies at Lodun. The only alternative was that Octave had somehow recreated that work and had developed the same theories independently.
If he hadn’t, if he had somehow stolen Edouard’s research. . . . He won’t need a device to speak to the dead, Nicholas thought. He will do it quite comfortably from his own grave. He would rather have seen all of Edouard’s work burned by the Crown than let Octave use it for some filthy trick.
Octave had recovered his composure as the other members of the party resettled themselves. He nodded at the still sullen Algretto and said, "To answer the original question, I am a doctor of the spirit, good sir. Any student of sorcery will tell you of the etheric plane. It is possible to use the ether to reach the souls that dwell beyond it, who were once part of our world. To communicate with them. To bring them—temporarily—back to the living. Now. . . ."
Octave let the silence grow, until the only sound was the wind moving gently through the oaks. His eyes seemed to go blank, then roll up into his head. A tremor passed over him and he moaned softly.
Theatrics, Nicholas thought in disgust. And not very good theatrics at that. Octave must still be rattled from Reynard’s near-battle with Algretto. He wasn’t the only one who found the performance less than convincing. He could see an expression of quite open skepticism on Madame Algretto’s refined features. But if the spiritualist was using a device that Edouard had had some hand in making, he was playing with power indeed.
A sudden loud rasp startled everyone. Someone gasped. The rasping noise came again and Nicholas realized it was the sound of wood scraping painfully against stone. Then he noticed what the others had already seen—the heavy wooden table was rotating, slowly, ponderously, rotating.
Algretto said, "It’s a trick."
Reynard pushed back from the table to look beneath it. Nicholas writhed inwardly, wishing he had thought of a way to make himself a member of the party, now entitled to jump up and examine the table for himself. Reynard said, "It’s not a trick. He’s not touching it." He scraped at something with one boot. "And there are splinters on the pavement."
"Then it’s sorcery." Algretto smiled. "Such a thing wouldn’t even amuse the market crowds, Doctor. Though I can see why you found this way of earning your bread more amenable than working as a hedgewitch in the Philosopher’s Cross."
The lamps all flickered once and simultaneously, as if a hand had briefly lowered over the flame of each. Without dropping his pose of rapt concentration, Octave said, "Believe what you wish. I am the key that unlocks all doors between our world and the next."
"Necromancy," Madame Algretto said clearly, "is punishable by death, aptly enough." Her hands hovered over the still moving table, not quite touching it. That she was beginning to find the proceedings distasteful was obvious.
"But not before the party is over, I hope," said Amelind Danyell slyly.
A trace of irritation in his voice, Octave said, "This is not necromancy, not ghost summoning or grave robbing. This is communication of the highest form."
"This is a table moving," Algretto pointed out, rather cogently Nicholas had to admit. "We’ve seen nothing but—"
Octave held up a hand for silence. Behind him there was a man standing framed between the pillars of the temple entrance. Nicholas caught his breath. He had glanced in that direction a bare instant before and there had been nothing there.
The man was young, dressed in a naval officer’s uniform. Nicholas stared hard, trying to memorize details.
The others were silent, those facing the other direction whipping around in their chairs to see. Even the table had stopped its halting clockwise progress. Madame Everset came to her feet without conscious volition, as if she had levitated out of her chair. Octave didn’t turn, but he had abandoned his apparently trance-like state and was watching her with avid attention.
It isn’t a projection from a picture-lantern, was Nicholas’s first thought. Its eyes were moving. Bloodshot, as if from salt water or lack of sleep, its eyes went from face to face around the table. It might be an illusion: sorcerous illusions could move, speak. Arisilde was capable of illusions that even seemed solid to the touch. It might be a living accomplice but he didn’t see how a man could have gotten past the servants stationed down the terrace without being remarked.
Madame Everset tried to speak and failed, then managed to gasp, "Justane. . . ."
Or how Octave acquired an accomplice Madame Everset would recognize as her brother, Nicholas thought.
Then Octave murmured, "Ask him, Madame. You remember our agreement."
Reynard started, his gaze jerking away from the apparition to Octave, and Nicholas knew he wasn’t the only one to hear those discreet words. None of the others seemed to take notice.
Madame Everset nodded, swayed as if she meant to faint, but said, "Justane, your ship. Where did it go down?"
The young man’s searching eyes found her. His face was not corpse white, Nicholas noted, but tanned and reddened from the sun. Somehow he found that point more convincing than anything else. The apparition licked its lips, said, "Off the southern coast of Parscia, the straits of Kashatriy." His voice was low and hoarse. "But Lise. . . ."
He was gone. There was no gradual fade, no dissolve into mist. He was gone and it was as quick as a door slamming between one world and the next. Madame Everset screamed, "Justane!"
In the suddenly vast silence of the night there was one sound. It was the click, click, click of a man’s bootheels on stone.
Nicholas felt himself seized by something, some invisible force that seemed to stop his heart, to freeze the breath in his lungs. It was very like the moment when the ghoul had rushed him in the Mondollot cellars and he had been momentarily trapped, powerless to move. He wondered if he had made a fatal miscalculation in coming here tonight.
At first nothing was visible. Then the shadows between the lamps resolved into a dark figure walking at an even, unhurried pace up the bridge of the terrace toward the temple. Nicholas squinted, trying to see the man’s face, and realized he was shivering; the normal dank chill of a late winter night had suddenly turned bitter cold. It was as if the temple platform was made of ice and his hands burned with cold inside his gloves. Something scraped across the roof of the temple, as if the wind had dragged a tree branch against it. Nicholas managed to move, jerking his head to stare up at the deeply shadowed edge of the roof. There were no trees overhanging the temple.
He looked at Octave.
The spiritualist was staring with grim concentration at the table. He hadn’t turned to look at the approaching figure but something told Nicholas he was more aware of it than any of them. Octave wet his lips nervously and muttered, "Not yet, not yet. . . ."
That worried Nicholas more than anything. Good God, the man can contact the dead, and he doesn’t know what he’s toying with. The figure was drawing inexorably closer. Nicholas tried to recognize it, to study its features, anything to understand what was happening, but something seemed to obscure its face. Even though he should be able to see it clearly at this distance his eyes seemed to slide away when he tried to focus on its features. He concentrated harder, knowing that Arisilde had told him it was a way to penetrate the most clever of sorcerous illusions, but it didn’t seem to work. The constriction in his chest and his heart pounding like a train engine didn’t help, either.
The figure was two paces from the temple entrance. It stopped. Nicholas caught a glimpse of dark clothing, the swirl of a garment, a cloak or coat. Then it was gone.
Nic
holas found himself gripping the balustrade and trembling. The members of the circle still sat or stood like statues, like carvings of yellowed marble in the candlelight.
In the breathless silence, Octave said, "We are finished, Madame." He bowed briefly to Madame Everset and walked out of the temple and down the terrace.
Madame Everset tried to protest, but her legs seemed to give way and she sagged, gripping her chair for support. Belennier jumped up to grasp her arm and Algretto said, "Get her to the house—"
"Wait," Reynard interrupted. He called out, "Footman! Get down here with a lamp!"
He’s thinking of our underground ghoul, Nicholas thought. And the scraping across the temple roof. He leaned back against the balustrade until he almost tumbled headfirst backward over it, but saw nothing. With the shadows moving across the weathered stone, there might be any number of ghouls crouched up there.
A confused footman brought another lamp and Reynard snatched it from him and moved back down the terrace, holding it high, trying to see if there was anything waiting for them on that roof. Nicholas could see he was questioning the footman, though he couldn’t hear the low-voiced inquiry; the man shook his head as he answered.
Reynard said, "All right, bring her out this way."
The others didn’t question him. Even the irrepressible Amelind Danyell was gripping Algretto’s arm and shivering. Madame Algretto had gone to Madame Everset’s side; their hostess seemed to have recovered a little, though she was obviously dazed and shaken. With Belennier’s assistance she stood and the entire party made for the terrace.