sun and the birth of a lasting darkness. But that was not the cause of the emperor’s malaise. The darkness had happened only recently, and the emperor suffered from a long-standing condition.
Beatrice went to bed and he continued his studies through three candles. His head ached with the mental effort. Perhaps if he addressed the influence of the comet, then he would see something?
He consulted his books and worked his chart, tracing the comet’s path across the sky as best he recalled it. Abu Mash’r — an Arab mathematician — was very helpful here, and Loys calculated his angles and drew his charts according to the wise man’s prescription. He cast the seven hermetic lots, his pen marking the lines against the ruler in quick and fevered swipes. In the lot of fortune he saw minor problems, in the lot of spirit some difficulties. Nothing pointed to an illness striking at Basileios.
Beatrice stirred in her sleep. For a second he longed to join her but he had gone beyond tiredness in his desperation for an answer. So work backwards. When he did, he found nothing again.
Beatrice woke him at his desk the next morning, a pool of wax from the candles at his elbow.
‘How are you getting on?’
‘Well,’ he said, not wishing to alarm her.
There was a knock at the door and the eunuch servant entered.
‘Hello,’ Loys said.
Beatrice put her hand to his head. ‘You’re very nice, Loys, but this is a court. If you behave like that no one will respect you.’ He had forgotten it was bad form to greet slaves.
‘I have a message, sir,’ said the eunuch.
Loys glanced at Beatrice.
‘You can reply to that.’ She laughed and stroked his hair.
‘What is it?’ said Loys with exaggerated formality.
‘The Lady Styliane would see the Lady Beatrice in her rooms at noon tomorrow.’
‘Sounds like you’ve made a friend,’ said Loys.
‘It is a formal occasion for the lady’s particular friends,’ said the servant.
Beatrice glanced at Loys. ‘Do you think I should go?’
‘If you want.’
‘It could be a worthwhile association for us.’
Loys smiled. Beatrice had been brought up at a court and it was as natural for her to think that way as it was for Loys to overlook it. His wife would prove a big asset to his career — were he not mired in this magic business. She understood instinctively how things worked. He was wary of great people; she was drawn to them.
‘The invitation extends to you too, sir,’ said the eunuch.
Loys and Beatrice exchanged a glance.
‘Me?’
The eunuch lowered his eyes in assent.
‘What could she want with me? Is it normal for the ladies of the court to take their men with them?’ he said.
Beatrice coloured slightly. ‘I don’t know if I did the right thing, but I mentioned your task to her.’
Loys swallowed, trying to think before speaking. Panic rose in him and anger too — for the danger in which Beatrice had placed them both.
‘I said nothing about the emperor,’ said Beatrice, ‘just that you were researching magic on the chamberlain’s behalf.’
Loys brought his hands together as if readying himself to pray. He saw what had happened. Beatrice had come to trust this woman and had made a casual remark that had rebounded to haunt her. He couldn’t blame his wife. He had put her in danger by telling her anything at all. Were they in danger from Styliane? Who knew? But he had seen already the court had its sectional interests and was certain he was about to encounter another.
‘Well,’ he said, glancing back at the useless results of his night’s scribbling, ‘let’s see what she has to say. She may be able to help.’
And at least he could mention the soothsayers to her to see if any sort of protection could be offered to them.
He squeezed Beatrice’s hand and gave her his best smile.
13
Mauger and Azemar walked through the umber light beneath the great dome of Hagia Sophia. Its windows were bright despite the dim day outside. Shining archways ringed the base of the dome, and the scholar imagined for a second they were the windows of heaven, with God and the saints gazing down at him.
It was an incredible building, raised to the glory of God — whose commandments Azemar was obliged to break. He imagined his soul standing where he was standing, surrounded by those windows, with God on his throne on the final day, judging him for helping Mauger to murder his friend.
‘The scholars come here?’ said Mauger.
‘I think this is the best place to start,’ said Azemar. ‘It’s the church of Holy Wisdom. Where better to search for a scholar?’
‘You know about these things,’ said Mauger, ‘so I will trust you.’
Azemar eyed the long roll of thick cloth the knight wore on his back. It was his bedding but also contained his sword.
‘You don’t intend to chop off his head here on the cathedral flagstones?’
‘If you see him, identify him and leave the rest to me.’
‘You’ll need to follow him to find the lady.’
Mauger gave Azemar a look that suggested he’d thought of that already.
Azemar shivered. The sky had frightened him, the sun reducing to a pale yellow disc like a dog’s eye and then vanishing entirely. A half-hearted snow fell and the cobbled streets were slick and slippy, the unpaved ones muddy and filthy. The rich kept inside while the poor wailed and prayed, huddled beneath the porticoes or crammed into the churches.
The only good thing to come of it was that Loys was likely to stay indoors. The cathedral contained its share of the poor now and their voices echoed to the ceiling. One voice sang above the rabble, sounding a kontakion loud and clear: ‘Though thou didst descend into the grave, O Immortal One, yet didst thou destroy the power of Hades.’
Azemar crossed himself.
‘Ask.’ Mauger touched Azemar on the elbow.
‘What?’
‘Ask one of those scholars.’ A group of monks stood whispering by a pillar
Azemar swallowed. At least Mauger couldn’t speak Greek. He would never know what had been asked.
Azemar approached them.
‘Hello, dear friends in Christ. Foul weather we’re having, isn’t it?’
The monks ceased their conversation.
‘You are a foreigner,’ said one, a tall man with thin lips and nose like a big crab apple.
‘Yes.’
‘Then perhaps you can tell us where this weather has come from. Did you bring it with you?’
‘No. That is… no. We don’t have its like in my lands.’
‘And where are your lands?’
‘Normandy, near Francia.’
‘I hear that it is overrun by barbarians.’
‘There are many fierce northern men there, it is true, and our dukes-’
One of the monks held up his hand to interrupt him. ‘Then why don’t you go back to your fierce northern men
