“I don’t know. No one does.”
John nodded. He motioned to the stella novae. “Tellochvovin. You may have made it up, but it’s true anyway.”
“There’s not much time,” Tygo said gravely.
“I see him, I think,” John said, his voice light. “David. Over there. He’s behind that cistern.”
“Ah. We should get him, then.”
John felt calm, even as he stared up into the sky at his own certain death. What was there to do but move forward?
When Mr. Capulatio saw them, he didn’t run. He coughed, wiped his hands on his pants, and nodded to them both with a restrained elegance. His Adepts, it seemed, had managed to cover him while he ran from the room. John was unamazed. They had seemed wily enough, the group of them. After all, they’d gotten this far. Mr. Capulatio’s slick black hair had fallen from its arrangement. He looked despondent. When greeted with the news that his four henchmen had been brutally struck down, he did curse the Cape and all who dwelled within. As though he had cared for his men in some regard. “What of my wife?”
“She escaped.”
He smiled. “Of course she did. She is a miracle.” He then gripped Tygo’s shoulder tightly and thanked him. Tygo said nothing. Very quickly they were able to arrange Tygo’s dress cloak over Mr. Capulatio so that he was mostly hidden.
So they went out of the compound in broad daylight. They took John’s carriage, Mizar driving them to the outskirts of the outlaw carnival, the village of booths and tents and streamers and Heads. Mr. Capulatio rode the entire way with a look on his face that could have extinguished the sun.
John watched it all with the bland tolerance of one who trusted. This irony struck him only faintly. It was as though he had been wound up all his life, a toy, an automaton, and at last he was slowing down. His true nature had lain just beneath his anxiety all along. It was quietude. It was acceptance. He sat in the carriage, silent, suddenly grateful for every single thing—even for the years of struggle he had endured. As they entered the outlaw carnival, he looked at the unfamiliar world around him, the colorful tents, the basins of blood. His leg itched. He was, for a moment, happy in spite of all of it.
“My wives,” Mr. Capulatio was saying. “I must find my wives. Before they find each other.”
CHAPTER 23
ESCAPE
Marvel Whiteside Parsons watched Michael pace and complain that he was not born a monk. This was irritating to Marvel. They had escaped down the service corridor and emerged into another grand empty room where the floor was a magnificent mirrored tile. From here they could hear nothing except their own footsteps as they echoed around the space. No fighting. No ringing of metal. This room, a somewhat smaller banqueting hall, was never used. Or it had not been since Leander was king. Marvel went to one of the tall windows and pulled up the hammered metal shade: the golf course. Peaceful evening light, slanting over the ground like a stencil. A golden dog running across the seventh hole. And a man on the grass now with a rolling blade, cutting it shorter.
Michael could not be still, his steps ricocheting on the cool floor. He was speaking, but Marvel was hardly paying attention. The most important thing in the world seemed to be these few creatures just outside the window, going about their business, unaware of the encroaching danger. He thought of where his daughter might be at this hour. He didn’t know what she did in the afternoons. Probably she smoked and gossiped with her handmaids. Or she might be walking one of her dogs.
He knew he would never see her again.
“The Law does sanction war when heresies are manifested bodily. That is this. Clearly. I never saw such a clear case. There is no question,” Michael was saying. “I remember my Law classes. Somewhat. I’m definitely sure we’re justified to send our soldiers against these madmen.”
“Of course we are.”
“Have you really scouted their camp?”
“Certainly.”
“And do we have twice as many men?”
Marvel pulled his gaze from the window. Michael stood in the center of the room, like a motherless fawn in a clearing. “Of course we don’t.”
“How many do we have?” He was nodding as though he’d known this all along.
“Many less. Half as many. Don’t think about it. We have the advantage of superior weaponry and, of course, our wall.”
“Yes,” Michael continued to nod. “The wall. It was magicked recently?”
“Better. It’s been reinforced many times from the inside. The outer layer of glass is less majestic than it once was. But from the inside…” Marvel tried to smile encouragingly. He was trying to figure out how he could escape, alone. He had to leave now, or he would get caught up in the fighting. “It’s impenetrable.”
Michael went back to pacing. “What did you think of their nonsense about me not being king?”
“It’s heresy. You said so yourself.” Marvel turned back, impatient.
Michael had thrown off his bejeweled robe and stood anxiously in his undershirt and the plain pants he’d kept on beneath the robe. He twisted his bracelet on his arm, up past his wrist, apparently seeing how far he could push it up before it cut off his circulation. “Heresy. Yes. And yet … Sousa’s horoscope.” His voice ran off somewhat dejectedly. “It does
