Shadow Scale: A Companion to Seraphina(124)

Sir Maurizio was shaking his head, coming up with an argument of his own. “I can’t make it make sense,” he said, scratching his shaggy head. “If Jannoula is working for the enemy, and she’s the strategist you claim, why would she goad the Samsamese into biting her masters in the arse?”

“I don’t know,” I said. “The Old Ard believe she’s acting in their interests, but they also plan to kill her when she stops being useful. She’s astute enough to realize this, I should think. Might she be taking countermeasures to save herself?” It still didn’t add up. “We need to learn her true purpose, and how much influence she has over Queen Glisselda.”

“If the Queen won’t let her own fiancé into the city, I’d guess Jannoula has far more influence than she should,” said Sir Cuthberte grimly. “We can’t have Jannoula running Goredd’s war, whatever the devil she’s up to.”

We were all agreed, but our best course of action was unclear. The knights halfheartedly suggested marching into the city and seizing Jannoula, but it seemed foolish to provoke a fight with the city garrison on the eve of an actual war. All our troops needed to conserve their resources for the fight ahead, not go around injuring each other.

“No military action,” I said. I looked to Kiggs as I spoke, hoping he at least would understand. “I feel partly responsible for Jannoula. If there’s any way to save her, I have to try that first.”

Kiggs’s gaze was gentle and humane. I could not hold it; I looked at my hands.

“You’ve got guilt,” he said, his voice like an audible pat on the head, a palpable comfort. “Guilt and I are old friends. It’s the gadfly that stings all night, the never-ending banquet. It’s what you feel when you rush back home to your fiancée, intending to tell her all that’s in your heart, but she won’t even see you.”

I was slightly shocked that he would speak so plainly in front of the knights, but they seemed to have gleaned nothing from his speech. He leaned forward, elbows on his knees, and said, “What would you have us do, Phina?”

I frowned, staring at the rustic battle map. The Ninysh, Goreddi, and Loyalist clods were scattered about, indistinguishable from one another.

“Sneak me into the palace,” I said slowly. “She has wanted nothing more than for me to join her Heaven on earth. I’ll join her; I’ll be her friend, as close as I can, until I understand what she’s about and how to stop her. I’ll disentangle Glisselda from her influence.” Around the map the three men nodded. We put our heads together and planned.



I’d been nocturnal so long that by noon I was no longer functioning well. They let me nap in a command tent; the field cot felt like the comfiest bed I’d ever known.

I awoke midafternoon to the sound of dracomachists training in a nearby pasture, but didn’t get up right away. Before I entered Lavondaville, I needed as much information as I could gather about the Ninysh ityasaari, Lars, and Jannoula. Had she finally gotten her hooks into Blanche and Nedouard? What was she doing with them?

I steadied my breathing, spoke the ritual words, and entered my … well, I still thought of it as a garden, no matter how it had withered and shrunk. The place hadn’t changed since the day I’d called each avatar by name. The sky still sagged, propped up by Jannoula’s cottage and the trees of Pandowdy’s swamp. The denizens lay in a line on the lawn, inert as dolls. Tending the garden took no time now; I walked in and counted.

I located doll-Nedouard. If Jannoula had gotten her hook in him, she could easily find out that I’d looked in on him. I would have to be careful not to reveal anything sensitive. I didn’t think she could tell where I was, but she’d guess I was near. The visit itself would raise her suspicions. I didn’t see what choice I had, however; I couldn’t go in guessing.

I took doll-Nedouard’s tiny hands in mine and braced myself for the terrifying vortex of consciousness, but the vision didn’t suck me under quite like it usually did. It felt distant and false, like I was peering through a spyglass.

My vision-eye hovered at ceiling level, looking down; that was normal, at least. I saw a narrow, whitewashed room with simple wooden furniture. The beaked plague doctor, below me, fetched a kettle from the hearth, its handle wrapped in a handkerchief against the heat. He poured steaming water into a pewter basin on the table, and then unbuttoned his shirt. His caved-in chest and bony shoulders were paved with silver dragon scales. He wrung out a cloth, wincing as it scalded his fingers, and began to clean his scales.

I watched him some moments, pondering the paradox of reaching inward to look outward. I spoke to Nedouard in my head: Good afternoon, friend.

“I thought I felt you watching,” he said, wringing out his washcloth gingerly. “I must admit, I prefer your approach to hers. It’s less intrusive.”

I didn’t have to ask whom I was being contrasted with. Jannoula got to you at last. I’m so sorry. How did it happen?

The old doctor dabbed at his shoulder; steam rose off his speckled back. “Blanche was hit first. She tried to fight, which caused her terrible pain. She raided my store of poppy tears, wanting to die, but missed the dose and became very ill.

“So I said, ‘Blanche, I can give you a more effective poison, if that’s what you want, or you can stop fighting Jannoula for now, and I’ll help you find another way out.’ ”