Labyrinth Gate (8 page)

Chryse laughed. “We’re overwhelmed already. I can’t imagine we’ll
want
to venture into society.”

Sanjay shook his head, looking somber. “How can we possibly thank you? Under our circumstances, your generosity is—” He broke off, unable to find words.

“If they can’t throw me out,” said Kate, “they certainly can’t throw you out.”

“Don’t fool yourself into thinking that it is generosity,” scolded Aunt Laetitia. “It is pure selfishness. I find Julian’s youngest siblings tiresome and callow. His sisters Lucy and Emily, with whom I remain in charity, are married and live elsewhere. It is obvious to me that you will enliven this house. Therefore, you will stay.”

Julian smiled, waving one hand negligently. “And obedient nephew that I am, I would never dare oppose my aunt’s wishes.”

“Great-aunt, Julian. I’ll have you give my age the respect it is due.”

“C
HARITY,” SAID MARETHA
Farr from her desk, where she carefully rewrote her father’s scrawled notes into a readable and coherent form, “when you’re done fixing your hair, could you walk with me down to the booksellers? There’s a package come in I need to pick up for Papa.”

“Of course, Maretha.” The young woman who turned from the dressing table bore a striking resemblance to the soft-eyed Queen of Heaven who sat holding her ruddy-cheeked baby Son in the painting above the fireplace. “But I hope you mean to change and do something to your hair before we go out. It is possible for you to look quite presentable, Maretha, even though we don’t have a maid. If only you’d try.”

“Is it?” asked Maretha, not looking up from a list of the evidence compiled by her father, written here in his crabbed handwriting, supporting his theory of the existence of Pariam, the city of the labyrinth.

“You know I will help you whenever you wish. You and Uncle Raymond have been so good—”

A light chime sounded from the corner of the room. Maretha sighed and set down her pen.

“Shall I go down?” asked Charity quickly, setting down a ribbon she had been about to braid into her hair.

“No,” said Maretha. “You should finish dressing. It can’t be Papa ringing, since he’s in the study with the new secretary, so it must be Molly to say there’s a visitor. I’d have to see them in any case.” She examined her inkstained fingers with some dismay, cast a brief glance at herself in the mirror, sighed again, and left the room.

As she walked down the narrow stairs, she considered Charity. She was fond of her, as sweet and good-natured an impoverished cousin in an already impoverished house as anyone could wish. But Maretha, who had never been brought up to think about her looks, had in the last three years gained a vivid impression from Charity: that though, with a little more effort, she, Maretha, might be pretty, could in fact be desirable and attractive, underneath was that constant, unspoken assumption that beauty like Charity’s could never be hers.

And why should it? she thought in anger. You never thought twice about it before she came, because you were too busy with your father’s scholarship and with maintaining a house on no income. And now—

But Molly stood at the bottom of the stairs. The housekeeper’s face was ashen with fright.

“Why, Molly,” Maretha began. “Whatever—”

“Hush, mistress,” hissed the woman. “I didn’t know what to do, so I put him in the library. And I daren’t go bother Professor Farr. He’s that put out if I disturb him with the new secretary, seeing as they’re setting all in order finally. But I daren’t turn
him
away.”

“Never mind, Molly.” Maretha walked past the woman to the library door. “I’ll see the visitor.”

Molly’s face flushed red and she reached forward like a drowning person grasping for line. “No, miss. You mustn’t—”

But Maretha had opened the door. With a warning glance for Molly, she stepped inside.

And halted, struck motionless from surprise and sheer, instantaneous horror.

Of course she knew who he was, though she had never met him, had only had him pointed out to her once from a great distance. Impossible to forget.

“You are Miss Farr,” he said.

He was beautiful, of course. Any human with so much sorcerous power, gained by foul means or fair, must surely choose to be handsome. But behind that beauty—a chill. Deep and unfeelingly cold. She felt it immediately, even as she stared at him: hair so rich a yellow that it seemed unnatural, especially set against skin almost as pale and fine as Charity’s—though this paleness suggested that cast of skin touched by night and moon’s glow more than by sun. He looked younger than his reputation. Surely a man so inured to unspeakable diversions should look as dissipated as those rakes who merely drank themselves to death, or at least be not as slender and well-formed as the perfect fit of his conservatively dark coat and trousers showed him to be.

But it was impossible to be taken in by his fairness. “My lord,” she said at last, knowing she was staring and that he was scornful of her inability not to stare. She met his eyes now, steeling herself, knowing what she would see: eyes so dark as to be black. Enchanter’s eyes—all color lost, drained away.

He took off his gloves, a careful, deliberate process that revealed white hands. She waited, sure he did it to test her; it took her full complement of courage to stand quietly until he finished. He examined her, his expression unreadable, and at last placed his gloves at a precise angle on the high booktable.

“Well, Miss Farr,” he said, his voice as cold as his face, “are you finding it difficult to believe that I murder infants and violate girls and boys whom I buy off the streets from their destitute parents?”

“No,” she said.

His smile was as chilling as his eyes. Now she saw clearly that he was amused, but for a reason she could not possibly fathom. “Very good,” he said softly. “I see I came to the right place.”

“My lord,” she said, more deliberate now, or perhaps made rash by a combination of plain fear and, worse, admiration for his beauty. “I cannot imagine you came here simply to mock me. Whatever business you might conceivably have with my father or myself could not possibly interest us.”

“It will.” His conviction silenced her. “In any case, has it not occurred to you that by angering me you might be endangering yourself?”

“No.” It had indeed not occurred to her. “Even you could not harm or enchant a respectable young woman of good birth with impunity.”

“It is true,” he said, “that it is more difficult to meddle with those whose birth and wealth in some measure protect them. That does not mean it is impossible. Now I suggest you call your father, since my business is primarily with him.”

For a moment she wanted to refuse, but she knew it would be both futile and foolish. “My lord,” she said stiffly, acquiescing; but the door opened before she could move, and her father and the new secretary entered.

“Maretha.” Professor Farr’s voice was slightly peevish, a tone Maretha recognized—he hated to be interrupted. “Molly says there is a visitor—” He paused, blinking in his absentminded way at their guest.

“My lord,” she said, surprised at the calm in her voice. “May I present my father, Professor Farr. And Monsieur Mukerji. His lordship the Earl of Elen.”

Professor Farr bowed, but it was obvious that he was not quite sure who this personage was and why he should recognize him. “My lord,” he said.

Mr. Mukerji bowed as well, but said nothing. His eyes met Maretha’s briefly, a questioning look, and she saw from his expression that although he recognized the name and reputation, he, too, was at a loss to explain the earl’s presence.

The earl inclined his head to acknowledge the two men, but his gaze lingered longer on Mr. Mukerji: whether because of his foreign looks or because of some other quality he saw with whatever sorcerous sight he possessed, Maretha could not tell.

“Please sit down,” said Professor Farr.

The earl glanced at Maretha, eyebrows lifted, and as soon as she sat, seated himself. There was a moment of silence.

“I see you own a Gobella,” said the earl finally, nodding towards the wall next to the window, which bore, not bookshelves, but a magnificent old tapestry.

“Yes, yes,” said the professor, “a fine original. I identified it immediately when I saw it. You see that it gives the ten scenes of the Life of Saint Maretha, but it can be dated to the troubador period by the rendering of scene four—of course historically she rejected the Prince of Fronsai’s offer of marriage, but due to the romanticism of the period she is seen here accepting it. He then dies, in some versions while defending her brother when he was martyred, as is depicted here in scene five, but as is appropriate leaving Saint Maretha free to dedicate herself to the Knights Guardian in the service of the Queen of Heaven—scene six of course is always constant in all depictions.”

“Ah,” said the earl. His eye lit for an uncomfortable moment on Maretha. “And perhaps you named your daughter after the esteemed saint?”

Professor Farr appeared, for a moment, flustered.

“I believe,” put in Maretha quickly, “that it was my mother’s choice of name.”

“I see,” said the earl. “Professor Farr. I have read a number of your monographs. I am here today because of my interest in your work on the Pariam, or as you call it, the Pariamne civilization.”

“Indeed!” The professor flushed slightly. “Indeed, my lord, I must inform you that amongst my colleagues my work on Pariamne is dismissed as erroneous, ridiculous, and completely unfounded in fact.”

“And by some as fraud,” said the earl. He lifted a hand to forestall Maretha’s comment. “But I must assure you that I am not one of your detractors. Quite the contrary. I have conducted researches in my own branch of—ah—expertise, and it is quite clear to me that Pariamne not only existed but flourished on this island some millennia ago.”

Maretha recognized instantly her father’s change of expression. Whatever confusion he might have felt concerning the earl before vanished now. He had found a partisan. She managed to stop herself from frowning.

“Of course,” cried the professor. “The evidence is overwhelming. The two settlements, which I can by no means yet classify as cities, that I have had opportunity to study in the Midlands were obviously not of Latanic origin, although that of course is one of the main points disputed by my colleagues. But there are a number of structural and architectural differences, and beyond them the indisputable evidence of the fragments of writing and the frescos.”

“But isn’t that exactly the evidence that is most disputed?” said the earl.

“Only because they do not understand its importance! The frescos are the key. They are the depiction of the great rituals that fueled the civilization. You have read of course my monograph regarding the fragments from the throne room of the site near Eppot-Staw, which I have tentatively restored and interpreted.”

“Indeed,” said the earl, a cold flatness in his voice that caught Maretha’s attention, “that particular paper has been of great assistance in my own investigations.”

“Then you know that I propose that at the heart of the primary ritual event of the Pariamne year was a sacrifice—”

“Of course,” said the earl evenly. The chill in his voice made Maretha shiver, as if the window were not sealed against drafts. “At the center of every ritual is a sacrifice.”

“But the frescos at Eppot-Staw and at Mantion are too fragmentary to prove my theories. I have been working to decipher the writing, but as you know if you have read my monograph on the use of symbols, that although one sees a certain correlation between the Gates and various of the writing and symbolic gestures at the sites, I do not have the key to link them definitively. I must have more writing.”

“Where will you find it?”

“This past year I have studied exclusively the problem of the site of Pariamne itself—a word incidentally which I believe derives from the root Topo Rhuam—a root I interpret as holding several symbolic meanings: including a reference to the Consort of the Queen of Pariamne, but primarily which I translate as ‘the labyrinth of the Queen’s sacrifice.’”

“Yes,” said the earl. “I have read your latest monograph. You even claim in it to have deduced through your research the location of Topo Rhuam itself. And if you could find and catalog Topo Rhuam, all your theories would be proven.”

“Yes!” exclaimed the professor. “All those legends of the ancient treasure of the labyrinth have been dismissed as nonsense by those who only read the fables of the princess Sais and the fall of the city. Even the church simply equates the Queen of the Underworld with the Daughter of the Queen of Heaven, with the Mistress of Sin. But they do not recognize the historical perspective, the actual existence of the Queen of the Underworld as a pre-catholic deity in her own right, existing as the primary deity, with her consort, the Hunter, of the Pariamne civilization, which by all our moral lights today would seem a very violent and brutal one—something which the frescos bear out, incidentally. And there is every reason to believe that the tales of the princess Sais and her sealing of the labyrinth gate before the destruction of the city and her death represent some lingering remnants of actual events of those days. Of course, the common understanding of ‘treasure’ is usually in our devalued times merely one of gold or some moveable wealth—scientifically speaking, the key to both the writing and to the true and perhaps complete and earliest version of the great ritual frescos would be at Topo Rhuam—”

“Father,” began Maretha.

The earl lifted one hand, and Maretha was silent. “Why,” he asked, “if you believe that you know the location of Topo Rhuam, why don’t you travel there, hire laborers, and uncover both it and its treasures?” He was very still, waiting.

“Father,” began Maretha again. “Surely it is inappropriate—”

“My dear,” the professor said, interrupting her with one of his rare decisive looks, “we are clearly in the company of friends here, and Monsieur Mukerji is already aware of the state of our finances.”

“Ah,” said the earl. Had he been a more expressive man, Maretha thought, he would have leaned forward now, revealing both eagerness and satisfaction. “You cannot afford such an expedition.”