The Duke In His Castle (3 page)

Lower yet, hose disappears into a halfway-presentable pair of soft leather boots, of an unfortunate shade of deep plum purple. For accessories, there’s a long knife—culinary?—stuck at her wide saffron belt that cinches the voluminous doublet around a waist of indeterminate girth. Finally she is topped off by an enormous oversized charm-locket on a thick silver chain, hanging around the neck down to the approximate level of her stomach.

What makes this creature female? From underneath the cap the Duke sees a little-girl face. She is a whimsical doll; two grand eyes with a manic shifting expression, round fat cheeks, a tiny rosebud mouth. And yet, in the manner of an expensive heirloom doll, she is somehow old.

Indeed, thinks Rossian, the face is the only thing about this creature that does not offend; though, possibly the offense will make itself known in time. All else is revulsion, a festering wound to fine blue-blood sensibilities.

What a grotesque contrast they make. He, a gaunt vertical shadow with expensive refined airs, violet eyes, violet reflections in his wanton hair like dark honey; she, a whimsical squat toy-creature of vulgar insanity.

And what’s worse, she is holding a red, black and gold funeral box.

“No . . .” he says, feeling suddenly faint. “Not
that.
”

“Yes,” she says in a voice as bright as her outfit. “Here, my Lord, are the dust and bones of Fabled Nairis! Or, is it—that is to say, maybe, possibly—Nairis, the Fabled One!”

“Who the devil let you bring this—this
thing
in here? And who are you?” His tone is harsh, desperate. In his mind, stones and ice are grinding together.

She blinks, and a sudden confused darkness comes to her. The veneer of garish clothing may as well be non-existent, for with that one blink she is funerary while her words have lost their joyful charge and are falling like rain. “Who? Only the butler, my Lord, I think. He allowed—that is, he did not protest sufficiently—that is, I am not implying
I
am the butler, of course, no. Oh! I’m Izelle . . . Lady Izelle, my Lord. First cousin of Her Grace, the Duchess of White.”

“
Lady
Izelle. Lady? God-in-chattering-heaven. And what might be the purpose of this visit, pray I ask?” Rossian’s voice cuts past the rainfall like a finely honed scythe. He has a wicked talent for it, since childhood; furthermore, there are so many opportunities to practice it.

The lady however seems to catch on immediately. There is a mercurial switch. “My Lord, before I even bother with an explanation, you didn’t answer my original question. Are you the Duke Rossian? Or are you his poor relation?”

“Just call me Hanger-on Robbie.” In his mind he smirks; he is gearing up.

“Aha, well then. Robbie, is His Grace available for—”

“Oh, for heaven’s sake. There is no Robbie. I am the misfortunate you were instructed to seek. And as you can see, my luck has indeed run out, for you have located me. I am at your . . . mercy.”

The Duke inclines his head in the faintest semblance of a bow.

The monstrous doll’s rosebud mouth curves into a wicked smile.

“Then, Your Grace, I appreciate your mercy if not your service. And thus, let me be straightforward with you, in my haste to alleviate your suffering. I am here for the sole and resolute purpose of finding out your precious secret, so that my Cousin can take her first walk outside. Preferably next moon.”

He throws back his head, looks up at the stone ceiling, notes a cobweb garlanding one corner. He laughs softly. “You are a precious sort of jester, do you know? Wherever did she dig you up? First cousin, you say? No, that’s impossible. Blue blood is incapable of producing
you
.”

The Duke turns to the door to call his butler. “Harmion, is this some kind of clever joke on your part, to provide me with
nouveau
sublime entertainment on a much too lovely afternoon spent yet again indoors? Why did you not announce her? She let herself in somehow, past your Cerberus guard.”

From the hallway comes a familiar phlegmatic cough, followed by a clearing of throat.

“Apologies, my Lord. I was not given the opportunity due to the Lady’s rush of movement up the stairs. One would be reminded of a hound pack. And no, m’Lord, never a joke,” Harmion says tonelessly on the other side of the door. “I’m afraid this is quite beyond me.”

“There, see,” Rossian says to the creature. “You are even beyond Harmion. Therefore, you must be a figment of my degenerate, sickly mind. Only I can be depraved enough to imagine you. If I close my eyes, will you depart?”

He gestures with disdain at the funeral box. “As you make yourself gone, please be sure to take it with you. Merely by its nature, whatever is inside, it is repugnant to the living. Not to mention, blasphemous and out of place here. Relics, even fake ones, are meant for chapels and tombs, not drawing rooms. In short, I will not lower myself to ask how you acquired it, but I find its presence in my chamber unacceptable.”

Quite as unacceptable as you
, he begins to say, but doesn’t. Instead he closes his eyes as promised, playing his own game.

When he opens them within moments, she is still there.

Izelle watches the Duke, her doll-face stilled in an attentive calculating expression. She is possibly evaluating his degree of gullibility even now, measuring him up against the others she has had the pleasure of tormenting, in order to report the exact details to her infernal Duchess.

“Do I truly disgust you?” she says suddenly. Indeed, as she has promised earlier, she is blunt. But the manner in which she appears to savor the notion is odd and fascinating, and the Duke finds himself startled.

“This box of venerable remains is distasteful to you, but what of myself, my Lord? Obviously it is so. And yet, you are a blue blood, so where are your manners? Do you always pay such scathing compliments to your guests? No, really, you can’t be this rude.”

“I cannot help it, you’re a clown, madam,” the Duke replies. “For that matter, you’re not a guest.”

And the creature before him appears to be stunned into momentary silence. It’s as if up to that point she has no idea that she is indeed a grotesque, a jester, a terrifying costumed scarecrow. Or maybe she does. Wait, yes, the Duke sees a smile held back in the rosebud mouth, a smile pressed hard against little dainty teeth, he imagines. . . .

“My Lord,” she says softly. “Oh, I like you! You are rude and yet formal as the vestments of a bishop at high mass, a piquant combination! Sarcasm and stuffy decorum and wicked mercy, all in one man! Oh, whatever words shall I use to describe you to my Cousin? I can’t imagine. Have you a pictorial likeness I might take back with me, to show Her Grace? A lacquer miniature, perhaps?”

He gapes at her swift change in humor—that she remains standing in this small claustrophobic room before him despite his command to depart, that she is undaunted and is in fact laughing at him.

“I hope there’s one thing you come to understand,” she says. “That nothing you say will make me leave. Hate me, despise me, be nauseated by me and this pretty bones-trinket, but here we are. We will stay until we learn what we must—this Fabled Nairis and I. Right, my dear?” With a grin she looks down fondly and pats the funeral box (it is the moment at which the Duke first seriously considers that she is indeed insane, and as a secondary thought, wonders what is contained in that box of death).

She, meanwhile, continues, “You may be rude enough to force me physically, to call the butler and a legion of servants—but I can resist. Both you and your men. And your sorcery. It’s rather quite unladylike of me, but as you say, I am a clown, and a very determined one. In truth—” and here she gleefully closes her hands and arms about the funeral box in a morbid embrace, “I do believe I’m going to enjoy myself here. When is dinner served?”

She ignores the Duke, ignores his eyes—which are dilated in outrage at being subjected to her insolence. She glances around the study—for this chamber obviously doubles as a personal library and a sitting room—and her gaze takes in minute detail.

He watches her in fascinated horror. His lips part as she suddenly moves toward the nearby writing-table of heavy antique mahogany and plunks down the box beside an open volume of esoteric philosophy, next to sacred yellowed pages that are liable to crumble from a too-strong breeze. . . .

And then she adds insult by speaking yet again. “Duke, my sweet, while you yourself appear to be clean, presentable, and debonair, this room, my Lord, this whole castle of yours, is one big compost pile. Yes, do not flinch now. Decrepitude and rot, everywhere. On the outside, weeds. Within, dust and dirt. Look around you! How can you allow these magnificent things to sit in such filthy conditions? Volumes of Maneille, and the Fire Magus, unshelved and littering a table! Ancient references removed from protective sleeves and left to grow brittle in sunlight! The encyclopedic works of
Alghieri’s Sorcery
shelved out of order and in most cases lying spine-down or flat on top of others—really, something must be done about this, immediately!”

“Harmion!” he cries, unable to bear it any longer. “
Out!
Get her out!”

“Oh, come now, tsk-tsk,” she says. “I suppose—I surmise you really
don’t
understand. If you prefer not to listen to anything else I say, then consider this. Not unlike you, my Lord, Nairis, this poor creature whose deathly remains are here before you, disgusting you so, was an Heiress to a Dukedom. An Heiress to Yellow, I believe, or possibly Chartreuse, as that noble branch calls itself. The man down below in your foyer who was peddling this item, told me all about it, which naturally got me interested enough to take her remains off his hands. And because of what she is, or was—do you follow my logic, Sir?—the curse of our kin applies to her also, even in death. Which means that she—or her remains—once brought in, cannot be normally removed from the confines of this castle. Can’t even be budged—I’ve tried it, and so has the unfortunate vendor. Why else do you think he would not leave?”

The Duke listens to her while things cold and slithering start moving in his mind, slow gears of a gigantic rusted machine.

“Now, unless you would like this box to grace your entryway permanently,” Izelle continues, “you might consider cooperation. I venture that only with my Cousin’s sorcerous help might you remove this annoyance. Indeed, I can almost promise it—Cousin knows many things you’ll never guess. But—only after you agree to cooperate with me, or at least deport yourself civilly toward me. Now you see why I brought her—that is, Nairis—in here. Lucky coincidence? Thank heavens for traveling merchants who threaten mischief.”

Rossian’s jaw rises and he wets his lips. “But—what nonsense,” he says. “Are you
blackmailing
me with that thing? Do you think I really care whether an idiotic relic—no matter how distasteful to me—is somewhere in my castle? If it can’t be taken outside, I’ll have it removed to some far corner and stowed in a cellar. Anywhere out of my sight. And it wouldn’t bother me.”

“Oh, but obviously it
would
, my Lord; to quote the Poet,
thou doth protest too much
. Any fool, even a jester such as myself, can see that you’re afraid of it for some reason. What is it, the stench of death? Or the implications?”

“Damnation and nonsense yet again. Why should I be afraid?”

“I don’t know. Not yet. And really, it simply doesn’t matter for now. However, I promise you, at some point I will find out.”

The Duke looks at her, anger suspended behind a mask of stone. “If it doesn’t matter, then why in the world are we talking about it? I still don’t understand what the devil kind of leverage
she,
this deceased Nairis, represents for you against me—in your mind, verily, only in your mind! Devious, nasty little thing, are you? Your White Duchess certainly picked a gadfly to send as my tormentor. Only, regardless of your ability to sting, whatever either of you expects to find here, is . . . not.”

He pauses, breath failing his voice. He feels emptiness, a sense of futility, a need to simply turn around and pretend no one else is here in the room with him. How well it would be just to sit down in his familiar chair with its tall, padded back and comfortable, worn elbow rests and direct his gaze to a motionless object before him. Maybe something with yellowing parchment and crumbling pages, with smooth dark lines of symbols rendered in cursive. Follow the curving script into a trance, embark into a bright place of meaning. . . .

But no, she is still here.

“Come now, aren’t you going to ask me more about her?” Lady Izelle says. “About Nairis?”

He asks instead, “Where is that accursed merchant, the filth who brought this thing inside and then dared threaten me? Is he at least gone? What did he really want?”

Izelle shrugs. “Oh, he’s gone. And he wanted only one thing—to be paid. What else? And so I paid him, freeing her from his vulgar clutches. She is but some poor bones, now. But she also happens to be a deceased ancient beauty and heiress. Small wonder the merchant thought there was some worth to be gained. At first he was trying to have her revived, supposedly by means of your secret powers. Then he was willing to just sell her off in whatever condition.”

The Duke stares with incomprehension.

“Indeed,” she says. “How very odd of him—to think of secret powers, of all things.” And a smile engages the rosebud mouth, serving to irritate and yet somehow to beguile. “In any case, as you yourself surmised, m’Lord, she’s my means of blackmailing you. Not only have you proved how much the relic sickens you, but on my way in I happened to overhear your man Harmion speak of your peculiar and pronounced dislike—and I stress the word
dislike
—of dead things.”

“Why, my Lady, you really are despicable,” says the Duke, taking a step toward her. His stance is aggressive. He has been frozen all through their conversation, and suddenly he is on the move. The light from the window suffuses the fine edges of his hair with violet, while the line of his silhouette is drawn in gold.