Naamah's Blessing (24 page)

I shuddered. “Gladly.”

“We need more information,” he said in a decisive tone. “We need to talk to Denis de Toluard and find out everything he knows. What made him so certain that Thierry was dead? And if he’s not, what in the seven hells happened to him?”

“Good questions,” Bao agreed, slinging his staff over his shoulder. “Let’s go find him.”

As it happened, that was easier said than done. At Denis de Toluard’s townhouse, his steward informed us that his lordship had gone to Night’s Doorstep to drink himself into a stupor after the funeral, with strict orders that he was to be left to his own devices until he was good and ready to return.

“But that was two days ago,” the steward added, a worried look on his face. “I’d be grateful if you’d find him and bring him back. I haven’t seen him in such a state since—” He gave me a sidelong glance and didn’t finish.

I knew what he was thinking. Other than that day on the docks,
the last time I’d seen Denis de Toluard was the day the Circle of Shalomon summoned Focalor, and Claire Fourcay had been killed.

The steward wrung his hands. “Just bring him home safely, will you? I’d never forgive myself if he followed in his majesty’s footsteps.”

“We’ll find him,” Balthasar promised.

We spent the day searching every tavern and wineshop in Night’s Doorstep, where no one had seen Denis since the night before. At last, a worn-looking young woman in a threadbare gown, pretty enough to serve Naamah, but not pretty enough to serve in one of the Houses of the Night Court, told us that she’d seen him staggering toward the wharf around dawn.

“I recognized him,” she said. “So I followed him for a time. I was afraid he might…” She hesitated.

“Follow in his majesty’s footsteps?” I asked gently.

The young woman nodded. “He didn’t, though. He turned into the first tavern he came to. So I went home.”

“You’re a good girl,” Balthasar said in approval, fishing in the purse at his belt. “What’s your name?”

She curtsied. “Caterine, my lord.”

He pressed several coins into her hand, closing her fingers over them. “A token of thanks for your concern. Buy yourself a new gown, my love.”

Caterine peered into her hand and gaped. A good deal of gold glinted in her palm. “My lord!”

Balthasar patted her on the head. “Or a dozen gowns, or a pony. Whatever you like. Come, let’s on to the wharf.”

“See, I told you he was a good fellow, Moirin,” Bao said to me as we set out to follow him in the direction of the river, the girl Caterine staring after us.

“So it seems,” I agreed. “Despite appearances.”

“Keep it to yourselves,” Balthasar said with an ironic glance over his shoulder. “I wouldn’t want to ruin my hard-won reputation.”

The taverns along the wharf were rough places, catering to the sailors and boatmen who frequented them. These were not establishments
where one went to enjoy the conviviality and slightly disreputable thrill of Night’s Doorstep. They were places where men went to drown their sorrows and brawl. To be sure, I received some strange looks as we searched for Denis de Toluard in them, and Bao unslung his staff after our first unsuccessful foray, holding it in a casual defensive pose, his dark eyes glinting in warning.

The sun was beginning to set in the west, slanting rays gilding the Aviline River, when at last we found our quarry. It was in the fourth tavern or fifth tavern we tried along the docks; a fusty little place with rough-hewn walls streaked with the soot of decades’ worth of candle and lamp-smoke.

“Him?” The innkeeper nodded at Balthasar’s inquiry, jerking his thumb toward the back of the room. “Oh, aye. I reckon that’s who you’re after.”

Denis de Toluard was a wreck.

When I’d first met him, I’d reckoned him a pretty enough fellow with a handsome face, brown curls, and bright blue eyes. Now his face was haggard and lined beyond his years, his hair was greasy and matted, and his bleary, red-rimmed eyes could barely focus on us as we approached him where he slumped over a table, surrounded by half a dozen drunken sailors.

“Balthasar?” he slurred.

Balthasar Shahrizai folded his arms over the chest of his elegant velvet doublet. “Time to go home, Denis.”

“Nuh-uh. Nuh-uh.” He wrapped his hands protectively around a leather tankard, giving me a blurry look. “Moirin?”

“Hello, Denis,” I said softly. I had lingering cause to be angry with him, but I couldn’t be cruel. Not here, not now. “Balthasar is right. It’s time to go home.”

“No!” His hands tightened, denting the leather tankard. “I don’ wanna!”

“You’re coming with us,” Balthasar said mildly, exchanging a glance with Bao. “Willing or no.”

“I’m not goin’ anywhere with you. You didn’ even have the ballocks
to come with us. These are my friends, my only real friends.” Denis de Toluard gestured around him with drunken dignity. “Sailed with ’em to Terra Nova and alla way back. Damn bloody Nahuatl, damn bloody place. Thierry, Raphael, alla them… Gone, all gone. And we did nothing. Nothing, I tell you! Don’ know what we could, but we didn’t.” He rubbed at his eyes. “They unnerstand, they do. So lemme be.”

One of the sailors rose unsteadily, looming over the table. “You heard ’is lordship. Let ’im be.”

“Sit down.” Bao tapped him smartly in the center of his chest with the butt end of his staff. The sailor fell back into his chair and looked surprised. Others rose with menacing intentions. Bao grinned and twirled his staff until it was a blur, making the air sing. “It’s been too long since I had a good fight,” he said cheerfully. “Go ahead.”

Two of them lunged at him at once. Bao’s staff whipped left and right, and both sailors fell back, clutching their heads and groaning. He jabbed a third in the belly, and the fellow doubled over with a grunt of pain.

“Bao, wait.” I tugged on his black-and-white magpie coat. “My lord Denis, listen. We need to talk to you. I have reason to believe Thierry is alive.”

Denis de Toluard stared at me with bleary eyes.

“Raphael, too,” I added.

He held up one hand to forestall the sailors, who were all too glad to comply, then leaned over and vomited a copious quantity of ale onto the tavern floor.

“Oh, gods!” Balthasar Shahrizai exclaimed in disgust. Bao leaned on his staff without comment.

“Do you mean to torture me, Moirin?” Denis lurched upright in his chair, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand. At least he sounded marginally less incoherent after having spewed the contents of his belly. “Is that it? Is this repayment for the way the Circle of Shalomon used you?” His mouth twisted bitterly. “A trick, like the tricks the spirits we summoned taught you to play? That would be a fine jest.”

“No.” I stooped beside his chair, taking care to keep my skirts out of the puddle of vomit, and looked him in the eyes. “I swear to you by stone and sea and sky, and all that they encompass, by the sacred troth that binds me to my
diadh-anam
, it is no trick.”

All the sailors were silent.

Denis de Toluard held my gaze for a moment, reading the truth of my words written there; and then buried his face in his hands. “Elua!” he gasped in a muffled tone. “Take me home, please.”

TWENTY-SEVEN

M
uch like finding him, the task of escorting Denis de Toluard home was easier said than done.

He was still very, very drunk.

We got him upright, although he was unsteady on his feet. Balthasar Shahrizai settled his tab with the innkeeper, who shrugged stoically, pocketed the coin, and poured sawdust from a bucket over the puddle of vomited ale.

“Dark days,” was the innkeeper’s only comment.

Bao and Balthasar slung Denis’ arms over their shoulders and set about the chore of helping him out of the tavern.

One of the sailors staggered after us. “Lady!” he called. “Hey, lady! Did you mean it?”

I inclined my head. “I did.”

There were tears in his eyes. “If there’s a chance Prince Thierry’s alive, if you’re bent on getting his highness back, I’ll sail with you, lady. We all will, every last one of us, even if it means going back to that godforsaken place.”

“Was it truly that terrible?” I asked with sympathy and genuine curiosity. “Terra Nova?”

He nodded. “It’s bad.”

“We’ll see,” I promised him.

Among the three of us, we maneuvered Denis de Toluard back to his townhouse, Balthasar alternating between grumbling that we
should have taken a carriage and making insinuating comments in praise of Bao’s prowess with his staff. I rather thought Bao enjoyed the latter. Slung between them, Denis kept his head down and concentrated on putting one wavering foot in front of the other, the toes of his boots catching on the cobbled streets from time to time as the two men half assisted, half dragged him homeward.

“Sorry,” he mumbled, over and over. “Sorry, sorry.”

“Don’t worry.” Bao patted his back encouragingly. “You’re doing well. Under the circumstances, who could blame you?”

“Sorry to be a problem, not sorry I’m drunk.” Denis swung his head from side to side. “Can’t help it, don’t regret it. Only thing kept me sane. But you, Moirin. I owe you an apology, don’t I, my lady? A big, big apology.”

“Mayhap,” I murmured. “But now’s not the time to speak of it.”

Ignoring my words, he coughed and hiccupped, releasing a waft of stale ale and bile on the night air. “You tried to tell us, but we were so damn
sure
. Raphael most of all. He thought you were sent by the gods to aid us. Him.”

“So did I for a time,” I admitted. “But not that way.”

Denis hiccupped again. “It all went wrong, Moirin. So very, very wrong. All of it. That’s where it all began. We should never have attempted to summon Focalor.”

“I know,” I said quietly.

“You always did,” he said. “But we were too goddamned proud to listen to you. Well, I’m listening now.”

By the time we got Denis de Toluard home, he was nearly able to walk on his own. His steward thanked us profusely, taking custody of his drunken lord.

“Get a good night’s sleep and sober up,” Balthasar advised Denis, adding a pointed sniff. “And have a good, long bath. We’ll call on you on the morrow.”

That was our plan, at any rate; but we had not reckoned on the very public nature of our retrieval of Denis de Toluard, and the inevitable gossip it spawned. D’Angeline sailors are a garrulous lot, especially
drunken ones. By morning, my claim that Prince Thierry was alive was all over the City of Elua, and Bao and I found ourselves summoned to appear before the newly appointed Regent.

Duc Rogier was in a state of white-hot fury. His anger in the Hall of Parliament was mostly theatrics. This, this was genuine rage.

“
What
”—he gritted out the word, and had to pause to collect himself with a violent shudder before continuing—“what in the name of all that’s holy do you mean by spreading such a rumor? Moirin, I understand you’re unhappy at being thwarted. But this…” He shook his head in disbelief. “This is beyond the pale. It’s irresponsible, childish, and downright
cruel
.”

“It’s not a ploy, my lord,” I murmured. I couldn’t blame him for thinking otherwise. “I had… a vision.”

The Duc picked up a paperweight of colorful Serenissiman glass, squeezing it so hard his knuckles whitened. Bao eased his staff surreptitiously out of its harness, but the Duc was merely trying to contain his fury. “You had a vision,” he repeated in a flat voice. “A vision.”

“Moirin’s folk are known for such gifts,” Bao offered.

“I know what Moirin’s folk are known for!” Duc Rogier shouted at him. “Do you think to tell a descendant of House Courcel what comes of the Maghuin Dhonn meddling with visions?”

“It wasn’t that kind of vision.” While the Duc and Bao were glaring at one another, I took a deep breath and summoned the twilight, wrapping it around all three of us and plunging the study into dimness.

In the soft blue gloaming, Duc Rogier startled, the whites of his eyes showing. “What threat is this?” he demanded. “Guards!”

“They can’t hear you,” I informed him. “And this is no threat, my lord.” I let the twilight fade away. “It is a way of taking half a step into the spirit world. I wanted you to see, so that you might understand better. It is a gift that has allowed me, from time to time, to do things others cannot. I believe it is why this… vision… was given to me.” I met his gaze without flinching. Balthasar had told me to stay well away from discussing an expedition with the Duc, but I reckoned it
was a moot point now. “As Denis de Toluard can attest, I have already sworn on the sacred oath of the Maghuin Dhonn that this is no trick. I believe Prince Thierry is alive. So let us lay our cards on the table, my lord. I mean to gather an expedition to Terra Nova and attempt to bring him back. Do you mean to oppose me?”

He looked at me, his rage slowly ebbing and turning to wonder. “You really do believe this, don’t you?”

I had a feeling I’d be answering a version of that question many times before this was over. “Aye,” I said. “I do.”

Duc Rogier’s death-grip on the glass paperweight eased. He tossed it in the air and caught it as he contemplated his response. “Do I mean to oppose you?” he mused. “I’d like to, Moirin. Even assuming you
are
telling the truth, it’s a foolhardy notion with little chance of success, and I suspect more men will die for your precious vision.”