Death's Mistress (Dorina Basarab, #2)(113)

God, I could be such a coward sometimes.

“You think the consul is afraid of you?” I asked instead.

“Perhaps, in part. It is a balancing act with which every sovereign has to deal; the more powerful a courtier, the more useful, but also the more dangerous. No one can sustain herself in authority by relying solely on yes men, but gather too many powerful, ambitious courtiers around ...”

“And one day, one of them will replace you.”

It was strange, but I had never really thought about just how much power Mircea had. All senators seemed impossibly godlike, up there in the clouds somewhere, making decisions for us poor mortals. And compared to the vamp on the street, they were. But in fact, senators varied a lot in personal power and in the alliances each house was able to call on in an emergency.

And Mircea had always been very good at making alliances.

“I am not that one,” he said firmly. “Occasionally she needs to hear that.”

“And the other part?”

“The current situation has us all on edge. I cannot recall another time when so much has been in flux all at once. Anthony’s court, possibly about to face numerous challenges; Alejandro’s, weakened by years of misrule and neglect, about to topple; and our own Senate, devastated by the war, about to be rebuilt.”

“It might be rebuilt better.” I could certainly see room for improvement.

“Perhaps. But one thing is sure: it will be different. Loyalties will be tested. Age-old alliances will have to woo new members or they will not survive. And change is not something our people face with equanimity.”

“Hence the freak-out.”

“Yes.” There was a knock on the door, and a servant discreetly looked in. “The Circle is here,” Mircea said, rising. He looked at me, and his face went completely blank. “I meant to send this to you today,” he said, taking something out of his coat. “I cannot give you back your memories, Dorina. I can but give you mine.”

I didn’t understand that cryptic phrase, and had no time to ask him about it before the Circle’s people burst into the room and deluged him.

I found myself out in the hall, after getting elbowed out of the room by hungry journalists. It looked like the Circle had brought some of their own, along with medics—too late—and a couple old guys in suits.

I looked down at the small book Mircea had pressed into my palm. It had a leather cover that looked new, but what it was protecting wasn’t. There were a few dozen pages inside of good, thick paper that had aged to a deep gold color. I stared at them, uncomprehending, for a long moment.

Images covered the pages on both sides. Some were hasty sketches, done with a firm hand in dark ink, a few quick strokes picking out delicate features. Others were fully realized miniature paintings, the paper beneath them mottled with age, but the colors still as vibrant as the jewels that had once been crushed into their pigments. The subject of each was the same: a young dark-haired woman.

At first, I thought the images were of me, but I’d never worn those clothes, never posed for those sketches. And then I found one of her in front of a window, with her sleeves rolled up and her arms coated in flour, and my mind reeled. My fingers brushed the surface of the soapy old paper, tracing the raised edges of the ink in disbelief. These hadn’t been hastily thrown together in a few hours, as a prop to some devious scheme. It must have taken months, years, to do them all. . . .

Suddenly, I couldn’t make anything else out. Everything was a bright, smeared blur, like trying to see something when it was held right up against my face. Then I looked back at Mircea and everything came into focus again.

He was staring at me over the heads of the milling mages, silently. He should have been rearranging those handsome features into a concerned mask to placate the Circle. But there was still no expression on his face, no emotion in those dark eyes.

Maybe he didn’t know how to do this, either, I thought blankly.

And then a phalanx of scowling war mages arrived, jostling me farther down the hall.

The leather coat-clad crew got one look at Lutkin and started fingering their weapons. Eyes darted around suspiciously, as if they expected something to jump out at them from the wall. Mircea was going to have fun trying to keep the peace, and that was on top of having to come up with some kind of defense for Louis-Cesare.

The rules of the vamp world weren’t as arbitrary as some people thought. Masters had life-or-death power over their own families, but screw with somebody else’s and there was hell to pay. And for better or worse, Louis-Cesare was attached to the powerful, dysfunctional, vindictive-as-hell Basarab line.

Even Anthony couldn’t order him to be enslaved or killed if there was reasonable doubt of his guilt; Mircea would see to that. But eloquence would get him only so far. He needed something to work with, and it was my job to get him that something whether he wanted me to or not. I just wasn’t sure how.

I carefully tucked the small book away, dodging more new arrivals. Nobody was smiling, and everyone seemed to feel that I was in the way. I was trying to figure out the shortest route to the front entrance when Marlowe sidled up and shoved a slip of paper into my hand.

“Don’t make me regret this,” he hissed.

I glanced down. Two addresses were scribbled over it in a bold hand. One was nearby, and looked like a house number, and one was an address in Manhattan. There were no names, but I didn’t really need any.