Evastany

27 IV

27 IV

So, we have a new assignment. It is essentially the same as our old assignment, only it makes our old assignment that much more confusing by way of a bonus, which is always nice.

Limbane had nothing much of use to tell us, or nothing that he would share. He wouldn’t explain what he means by his “suspicions” about Dwinal, because he might be wrong and he wouldn’t want to prejudice our thinking. Annoyingly, I couldn’t even argue against that because it is logical.

Gio was not happy. He returned looking whiter than usual and evaded our questions regarding his grandmother. From which I concluded that he hadn’t approached her and really didn’t want to.

Well, considering what I know of his background from Llandry’s account, I can hardly blame him.

So, alternative plan. Guess who gets to play double agent instead?

That’s right: me. If we already have Gio positioned with Ylona, we need somebody else to butter up Dwinal. I can easily pass myself off as a ruthless, ambitious socialite who will stop at nothing in pursuit of power. It’s what half the world seems to think of me anyway. I don’t know how they think my forthcoming marriage to Tren fits into this programme, but then one doesn’t expect people to be either consistent or rational.

The question is: how to get Dwinal’s attention? Trying to get ourselves kidnapped no longer seems a viable idea, because…

…Well, no, perhaps it would still work. Limbane hinted strongly that Ylona isn’t necessarily our kidnapper. Meanwhile, Ori’s information is useful after all. Susa and Faronni are both sorcerers! We rejected the significance of that link because Heliandor isn’t one, but now that Heliandor proves to be no partial Lokant after all, I’m minded to reconsider.

We have three partials associated with the Bureau. The two who also possess sorcerer abilities have been taken. The one who doesn’t, has not.

So. I wonder if summoners would count, too? And I wonder, once again, whether somebody might find me a tempting target, if I arranged a suitable opportunity? Ylona might have rejected the idea, but if Dwinal is our abductress, that hardly matters. And Dwinal, by Llandry’s account, is sometimes more ruthless than sensible.

Tren, of course, is a sorcerer. If we create a fake partial-Lokant persona for him and put the both of us somewhere conveniently out-of-the-way and easy-to-access, I wonder if we might manage to get ourselves made off with after all?

‘Darling,’ said I to the love of my life soon after this period of reflection. ‘What do you think of the name Archivere?’

‘Most elegant,’ he said promptly. ‘Are we choosing baby names already? Do you have something to tell me?’

‘No!’ I uttered the syllable instantly and forcefully, which provoked a laugh from Tren. More like a cackle. Alas, he is so lamentably adept at winding me up.

‘It is your new name,’ I informed him. ‘Archivere Dalsy, of Orstwych. A man of mixed sorcerer heritage and some Lokant blood. Together, you and I shall present an irresistible picture to Dwinal. Or Ylona. Or whoever it is that’s making our lives difficult lately.’

Tren thought that over. ‘We can’t just make up a partial-Lokant persona. They have those timelines, remember? Family trees going back centuries? If they’ve tracked draykoni families that closely, I can hardly imagine they’ve neglected to keep track of their own.’

‘I think they have done exactly that. Why else do they need our Bureau, and our information? If they knew who all of their distant Seven-Realms descendants are, they could have claimed them long ago. I think that tracking Lokant families is harder, because the heritage doesn’t manifest in everyone who happens to have a Lokant ancestor somewhere back in the mists of time. With some families, generations can pass without a white-hair emerging. I think their descendants are randomly scattered all over the Seven, and they have almost as much of an idea of where to look for them as we do.’

‘They can’t be that ignorant. Limbane seems to know exactly who your ancestress is.’

That brought me up short for a moment, because I had forgotten that. I was briefly intrigued. Who was the Lokant woman who had spawned my branch of the family? What was her story? Would she be someone I would like?

And how did Limbane know about that, anyway?

Never mind — distraction.

‘Probably they are not all that ignorant,’ I conceded. ‘But I doubt there is any centralised records system in this respect, or, probably, in any other. Lokant Libraries do not seem to play nicely together.’

‘Fair point,’ Tren conceded.

‘So I think we may fabricate an Archivere Dalsy, and everyone will simply assume he is somebody else’s family. Probably they do not much care. If we are right, they want sorcerer-Lokants and possibly summoner-Lokants; in other words, people with mixed Lokant and draykoni heritage. Where exactly those people came from is, I would wager, less important.’

‘I can see you are committed to the idea, so I will argue no further,’ said Tren graciously, and was so polite — and so mocking — as to bow to me.

‘It is the name I like,’ I admitted. ‘It has such possibilities. I am reluctant to abandon it.’

‘I can only agree with you. Nobody called Archivere could be anything less than a man of vast character.’

I beamed at him. ‘I knew you would understand.’

Truthfully, I was a little discomfited by Tren’s obvious doubts. I have not exactly covered myself in glory thus far, having produced one or two conclusions already that were flat wrong, and made more than one mistake. Perhaps Tren was right, and no one would be fooled by our ruse. They would know right away that no such person as Archivere Dalsy had ever existed, and would realise that they had encountered a con.

No matter. I did ask him, later, if he had any better ideas, and he had to admit that he did not.

So, we turned Tren into Archivere Dalsy — giving him a whole new wardrobe in the process, an activity from which I freely admit to deriving immense enjoyment — and installed him in a little house in Orstwych. We inserted all the right records for him at all the right places. We sent him a letter from me, with enough fanfare to ensure that (if anybody was, indeed, watching our post) somebody would take notice. The letter arranged a time when I, Lady Glostrum, would arrive to visit Archivere Dalsy, and discuss the possibilities of a bursary with him.

We dispatched Gio plus Ori back to Sulayn Phay — well, they hate to be separated, which is hardly surprising, and anyway I prefer for Gio to have somebody reliable by his side — and away went Tren to Orstwych. I remained behind alone, with no one but Adonia for company.

‘Wonderful hat,’ I informed her by way of conversation, soon after Tren’s departure. Well, it was lonely, and I had to talk to somebody.

She adjusted the splendid thing, clearly pleased by the compliment. It was a wide-brimmed affair, the kind that curves and dips and positively explodes with effusive adornment. There were at least eight colours involved, which I am sure you will agree is far more than should ever be boasted by a single hat. I strongly suspected that she had decorated the thing herself.

‘I made it myself,’ she declared, with a bright smile.

I tried to look suitably impressed.

Since she was wearing it with a blouse of cerise silk, a voluminous violet skirt and spiky shoes, I could not look at her for too long.

‘Adonia,’ I said. I briefly considered bestowing a lecture on such elusive concepts as complementary colours and less is more but the dewy, delighted expression upon her face following my insincere compliment defeated my resolve.

Instead I said: ‘You may find that the Bureau is a little empty for a day or two, as we have business elsewhere.’ (I had not, of course, informed her as to the nature of the business. Nor had anybody else. Our plan was concocted exclusively among the four of us — Tren and I, Gio and Ori — and nobody else was taken into our confidence).

‘I need you to keep track of any further applications we receive, send them a letter of acknowledgement, and hand me the correspondence the moment I return. Any urgent problems may be taken to Lord Angstrun. Any questions?’

She blinked at me, wide-eyed. ‘Do you think this hat would be improved by another feather? A larger one, the curling kind, right on the brim.’

‘No,’ I said, this time choosing the brutal truth.

‘Oh.’ Her face fell.

I could not suppress a sigh. ‘Oh, why not? Just one more feather, though. Too many more and you will not be able to hold up your head.’

The delighted smile returned, and I left before I could be betrayed into encouraging any more such excesses.

I did not tell Adonia, of course, that I had privately tasked Angstrun with keeping an eye on her. I didn’t want to suspect her of duplicity, and since Heliandor’s unmasking it seemed particularly unlikely that Adonia had anything to do with anything. But one has to at least consider these possibilities, much as I dislike the idea. He assured me that he would have Some of his People discreetly watch her doings and make sure that correspondence arrived at, and departed from, Adonia’s office as it should.

As such, I was able to depart upon my espionage mission with something approaching peace of mind. Irritating as Darae can be, he can also be useful, and surprisingly supportive on occasion.

If Tren had not been blessed (or cursed, however one wishes to look at it) with such powerful abilities as a sorcerer, he could have been an actor. I have had occasion to observe this talent in him before.

When I arrived at his borrowed house in Orstwych in all my aristocratic state and rang the doorbell, the person who answered the door was scarcely recognisable to me. If I were not in on the plan, and besides that so intimately familiar with Tren’s beloved features, I would never have guessed that it was he. The man who opened the door appeared to be rather younger than Tren, barely into his twenties, and he possessed a demeanour of abundant, youthful enthusiasm which Tren (for all his optimistic temper) has never displayed. His hair (now artificially whitened) was , apparently because Archivere Dalsy had a habit of fidgeting with it when he was excited about something. His clothes stopped just short of dandified (as committed to our mission as Tren is, he would never consent to be badly dressed, not for any reason whatsoever).

He had a pipe in one hand. A pipe. An accoutrement which, you must agree, might more naturally be expected of a much older character, for the youth are not known for their fondness for pipes. The things are not considered fashionable. Archivere was unabashed, however, and seemed to regard his with a fondness bordering upon the manic, for he puffed upon it without cease and I never saw him without it in his hand.

‘Lady Glostrum!’ cried he, and swept me a bow. ‘How delightful! How marvellous! I have been so eager for your arrival I have hardly slept, hardly eaten, I cannot tell you how delighted I am at the prospect of joining your magnificent school. Do please come in. I have refreshments — doubtless not up to your usual standard and of course I apologise, but I have done my little best! Do watch the step! I should hate for you to trip on those glorious skirts and injure yourself in some way. There, I shall just close the door behind you. The wind is quite chill, is it not? The parlour is this way.’

On we went, and on he went, maintaining such a ceaseless flow of chatter I could hardly get a word in. I could hardly keep a straight face, either, which was inconvenient. He served me good things and chattered while I ate them, and perhaps we both privately wondered how long it would be necessary to maintain the charade before anything useful happened.

If anything useful happened. It was all a bit of a gamble, after all.

I found it within myself to tell Archivere Dalsy all about our Bureau and our school, and the bursary we were inclined to offer. I believe I managed to do it reasonably convincingly, though I cannot but admit that acting is not my strong point. Tren says it is because I am too decidedly, resolutely myself to have the capacity to become someone else. He is probably right, though that sounds like a passingly unflattering reflection to my ear. Too self-satisfied by half! Why would I ever want to be someone else when I can be Lady Glostrum?

Anyway. Time passed, tea was drunk, many words were exchanged, and nothing happened. Nobody came to the house, nobody appeared spontaneously in Archivere’s parlour, nobody broke in through the window. Nothing.

We began to exchange faintly concerned looks. How wretchedly disappointing, to go through such a charade for nothing! Not that Tren hadn’t enjoyed it. It was probably worth it for that alone. Still, it was not quite a productive use of our time, if the only advantage it afforded was giving Tren the chance to play dress-up for a couple of days.

We were about to give up — expertly communicating this by way of meaningful looks alone — when there came, at last, a ring upon the doorbell.

‘Aha!’ said Archivere, and jumped up at once. ‘I cannot think who that can be! I rarely receive visitors, Lady Glostrum — I could not say I am a sociable man, exactly. I wonder who this could be! Do, pray, forgive me the interruption! I am sure it is nothing, and will be resolved in an instant. And then I shall promptly return.’

He left, the latter part of this speech wafting back to me as he dashed for the front door.

To my frustration, I could not hear what passed between him and whoever had arrived. I discerned only a low babble of voices, one of which was certainly Tren’s (though even his voice was somewhat modified in his persona as Archivere, is that not impressive?) I could tell nothing about the visitor, save that I thought the second voice was male, too.

After a few minutes, Tren — or no, Archivere — returned.

‘What luck, what fortune!’ he was saying as he came in. ‘That you should happen to arrive just when her ladyship is with me! Thus we may easily kill two birds with one stone, no? Lady Glostrum, I believe you know this gentleman! He is here with an interesting proposition for us.’

And there, walking into the little parlour behind Archivere, was Limbane.

My instinctive reaction was to feel something like revulsion. Our least favourite sneak was sneaking again, and interfering; sticking his nose in where he was not wanted, following us around, pushing his way into our schemes! Did he not trust us to carry out his request without needing to keep a watch upon us? Terrible man.

Then I recollected who I was dealing with. Lokants.

‘Why, Limbane,’ said I, with every sign of surprise but none of the wariness that I felt. ‘How long it has been.’

‘Lady Glostrum,’ said Limbane, with a degree of courtesy unusual for him. He even bowed to me. ‘I trust you are in good health?’

That clinched it. Limbane has never been remotely interested in my continuing good health. ‘Oh, perfectly, thank you,’ I assured him, and we spent another minute or two exchanging the usual pleasantries.

Then I enquired, naturally enough I do hope, about the reasons for his happening to show up at a tiny house in Orstwych, occupied by a fictional partial Lokant, just when I was visiting there myself.

I phrased the question rather more naturally, of course, and contrived to keep my sarcasm to myself.

‘I came to meet my great-grand-nephew,’ Limbane said, with a pleased smile at Archivere.

Uh huh. ‘How lovely!’ I exclaimed — and for all Tren’s conviction that I cannot act, I must say that I slipped into a charming, easily pleased, pleasantly unsuspicious version of myself which, I hope, was well suited to the occasion. ‘I had no idea that Mr. Dalsy was related to an old friend.’

‘Neither did I,’ murmured Archivere, and the tone was so dry, so wry, and so utterly Tren that I almost laughed. I shot him a warning look, and saw his lip twitch in response.

He launched back into Archivere. ‘A great-and-some-other-greats-uncle! Goodness! What a pleasure, for I have long been without much family to speak of. It will be the greatest delight to make your acquaintance, sir. That is—’ and he paused, his expression turning from delighted to troubled in an instant. ‘I hope that you do intend to stay a little while? How sorry I shall be, to meet you only to wave you off again!’

Good man! I puffed up with pride, for whoever was pretending to be Limbane immediately said: ‘No, no! I come with every intention of forging the closest of family links, I assure you.’

He looked at me, and I waited. The choice of Limbane as camouflage could only be directed at me, of course; there could be no reason to imagine that an Archivere either knew or cared who Limbane was. That the scheme was designed to appeal to me, and to persuade me into something, I did not doubt. And how excellent.

‘Lady Glostrum and I are old friends,’ said apparently-Limbane with a smile. ‘And her new endeavour is of great interest to my Library.’

‘Oh?’ said I politely.

‘It pleases me greatly that you are giving training and purpose to such as my great-grand-nephew. It is of benefit to them as well as to your world. And who can say when it might not be of use even to our Libraries, to have such a base in the Seven Realms, a series of contacts who know us and understand us and have worked with us in the past? Who can offer us teams of our own people, with our own abilities, and an understanding of your world which we lack? It would be wise indeed for us to assist you, which is what I come to propose.’

All of that sounded far too plausible to me. I had to work a little to keep my suspicions off my face. ‘We would welcome assistance, certainly,’ I conceded (and it was true). ‘We struggle to teach even so few students as we have thus far secured.’ (Which was also true).

Limbane smiled. ‘Allow me to invite both of you to Estinor for an extended visit, then. I will get to know my nephew, and your ladyship and I may discuss the requirements of your organisation, and see about what we can do to help.’

How lovely. How neat. Something for everyone, and so civilised an arrangement. I suffered a mild pang of regret that it was all a lie.

I agreed, of course, and graciously. So did Archivere. I spent a little time surreptitiously watching this Limbane, hoping to detect some betraying sign that it was not he. I failed, of course. These people are irritatingly good.