Chương 84: Book 2, Chapter 23: Smoke and Mirrors

The crowd waited with bated breath as the sea breeze carried away the smoke. Beside Clara, Pedro sipped from a cup of coffee—which she could've sworn he wasn't holding just a minute ago—and watched the haze patiently. If he was worried at all about what was behind it, he certainly didn't show it. Gradually, it scattered into the wind, until it was thin enough that the deck came back into view. Bel stood at the center of the ring, her short sword pointing down.

And at her feet, Conrad knelt on the planking, one hand braced against the deck, the other empty. His saber lay near the ventilation cowl, well out of reach.

"Yield?" Bel asked, placing the tip of her blade on Conrad's chest. Conrad looked up at her. For once, his scowl was nowhere to be found, and in its place was a hollow stare.

"I yield." Most of the sailors let out a collective groan, followed by the clink of coins changing hands. Bel slid her sword back into her sash. Then she reached down and gripped his forearm.

"Up, Connie. There's no shame in defeat." He took her arm and let himself be pulled up, then he walked over to his saber and retrieved it.

"I disagree. I almost had you, and yet look where I ended up. There's a great deal of shame in it, if you ask me." Bel slapped him on the shoulder hard enough to stagger him.

"Listen to me, because I do not say this often, and I will deny it if quoted. You did nearly have me. That was the finest you have ever fought. You cut my favorite coat, when last time you could not have touched me if I stood still and hummed a shanty. Ricardo taught you well, and you have honored his teaching." Conrad's face twisted at the name, and he looked away toward the sea.

"And yet I lost."

"And yet you lost," Bel agreed.

"So learn from it and come at me again. I look forward to it." She strode off toward her sailors and stretched out her hand, immediately getting a good few coins dumped into it, presumably from people she'd wagered against—which included a sheepish Father Anchieta, apparently. So much for greed being a sin. Conrad stayed in place, alone at the edge of the circle, staring blankly at the horizon. Luisa approached him. She stood next to him, saying nothing at first.

Then she reached up and brushed a smear of soot from his cheek with her thumb.

"I haven't seen you feint like that before," she said.

"No. Yet it failed."

"It succeeded in forcing Mamãe to play her hand. You should understand what it means that she had to resort to trickery."

"It means the match is hers," said Conrad.

"It means she could no longer be certain of winning honestly. She does not use traps against opponents she can defeat with skill alone. I have witnessed every one of your attempts, Lord Conrad, and today is the first time I have seen Mamãe pushed like this." A faint flush colored Luisa's cheeks.

"I found your performance… agreeable." Conrad blinked, redness spreading all across his face.

"I… Thank you, Lady Luisa. Next time, I will—that is, if you are amenable to waiting."

"I am. I enjoy watching you improve." Conrad exhaled, the tension draining from his shoulders in real time. And he actually smiled. Briefly, because it was still Conrad. These two are so sweet.

"Well," said Iris, snapping open her fan with an air of disapproval.

"I do hope everyone enjoyed the spectacle." She aimed her glare straight at Bel.

"Auntie Bel. Correct me if my understanding of dueling is deficient, but I do not believe flash powder and mirror lights are customary in duels of honor."

"Customary? Perhaps not." Bel dusted off the ruined hem of her coat.

"But effective nonetheless."

"It was cheating," Iris declared.

"A shameful, dishonorable trick unbefitting a peer of the realm."

"Sister, it is fine—""It is not fine. I am defending your honor, Conrad, so kindly refrain from interrupting me. Auntie Bel, my brother fought with skill and discipline, and you resorted to theatrics. Your conception of fair combat leaves a great deal to be desired. Do you have no pride as a duchess?" Bel only laughed, and it was Pedro who answered.

"Lady Iris, tell me, when my daughter fights a war, do you imagine her enemies politely announce their plans beforehand?"

"A duel is not a war, Lord Pedro," Iris countered. Pedro smiled into his coffee.

"It is not a dance recital, either, where the only thing that matters is grace. The boy wishes to marry my granddaughter, who comes from a line of sailors and officers. Better he learn from Isabel's smoke on a friendly deck than from a Byzottoman soldier aboard a hostile fire ship." He raised his cup slightly toward Conrad.

"A match teaches what it teaches, and as a result, Conrad will be twice as capable next time."

"Hmph." Iris pouted.

"I maintain it lacked elegance." Clara smiled. She suspected this exact argument had taken place many times in the past between the various generations of von Rhenias and de Braganças. The morning after the duel, Clara decided it was finally time to speak to Bel about the favor and the bill of law for an experimental court in Westwick. We're almost on land, and if I talk to her aboard a ship, she can't run away from me. That sounds like something she'd do to a debt collector.

Clara changed from her nightgown into one of Madame Silka's morning dresses—the sky-blue one made of linen, this time—then made her way up to the upper deck. Bel's office was at the rear of the Esperança. It wasn't large, since there wasn't that much space to spare aboard, but it was still impressive, featuring a mahogany table with intricate carvings and dozens of labeled cabinets Clara assumed had been organized by Luisa.

Pedro came in at some point during Clara's explanation, and both de Braganças listened surprisingly attentively to Clara's idea. By the time she was done, Pedro had an amused smile under his beard, and Bel cheerfully agreed to sponsor the bill. Clara hadn't expected the duchess to refuse, but the enthusiasm of the reception was still surprising. Hopefully, this bodes well for the future. As their discussion started winding down, the piercing shriek of the Esperança's steam whistle intruded into the office.

Looks like we're here. The trio made their way to the front deck, meeting Conrad, Luisa, and Warren, who were already there. And far on the horizon, but coming closer with every passing second, were the blue roofs of Fontaineux. Home, sweet home. That was an interesting choice of words. Clara hadn't really stopped to think about it until now, but at some point she'd started thinking of herself as an Arcadian. To her, this place had become more than 'another world'.

"Admiral-Duchess, the harbor front." Luisa lowered her spyglass and handed it to Bel.

"Ah," said Bel. She looked for a long moment, then sighed deeply.

"How thoughtful."

"What is it?" asked Clara.

"His Majesty has sent us a welcoming committee. The Second Regiment of Foot, if I'm reading the banners right." Luisa confirmed her mother's words with a curt nod.

"A detachment of the Royal Army. And I believe there are some knights of the Order of the Wolf at its head, as well." Clara squinted. Even from here, she could make out some of it—verdant banners fluttering in the morning sea breeze, and hundreds of men at the city's docks, lined up like ants.

"Word of the happenings in Istantinople has reached the capital, then," said Warren.

"I would imagine the government wants to hear about what took place there. We have achieved something quite noteworthy, after all." If you stumble upon this narrative on Amazon, it's taken without the author's consent. Report it. Bel clicked her tongue.

"I would rather not have to deal with the royals." That was when Iris appeared from below deck. She was wearing a long, flowing robe she'd bought in Istantinople, apparently made of exquisite silk embroidered with gold and silver threads, symbolizing the height of Byzottoman craftsmanship. If Iris were to be believed, she would be the envy of all her classmates.

"Well, our excursion was hardly going to remain a secret. A ducal armada sails into imperial waters, points its guns at the Sultan-Basileus's palace, and wins a foreign trial. Word of that sort of thing travels fast." Iris tilted her head, drills swaying in the wind.

"Especially when someone insisted we linger for three extra days before departing for the sake of shopping."

"That someone was you, Sister," said Conrad.

"Quite so. It would not do to travel to the Queen of Cities and neglect to shop. If that has given the King time to summon an escort for us, then he may thank my excellent taste."

"Shall we make a break for it, Papai?" asked Bel.

"Drop off our guests, then pretend we didn't see the king and return to Santa Maria." Pedro chuckled, gazing at the green banners with little enthusiasm.

"A tempting offer, Isabel. I had been meaning to see the summer fjords in Norravia, and being towed to the capital tends to get in the way of things." Luisa glared at them.

"You two. Do you know what will happen if the former duke and the current duchess of Bragança slip away while the King's banners wait at the pier? Sofia will have to spend months smoothing feathers in Elysia." Bel scratched the back of her neck.

"I suppose it wouldn't do to put your sister through that, after she agreed to look after things during our little vacation."

"Very well," said Pedro.

"Since my granddaughter insists, let us accept the escort and ride to greet His Majesty like the devoted subjects we are." The Esperança slid into the harbor slowly, anchoring at a suitable distance for them to take a launch to the pier. As they approached Fontaineux, Clara could make out the welcoming party more clearly: rank upon rank of soldiers in green and gold, and in front of them, a group of knights in heavy armor and emerald capes. And at the head of the party, two figures.

One was impossible to miss, because she was two heads taller than anyone else around her. Dame Rowena stood at attention, her longsword sheathed at her hip, her blonde hair slightly longer than before but still just under her ears.

"Is that…?" Iris asked, narrowing her eyes. And beside the knight was a boy in a dark green doublet. His chin was raised, his hands were clasped behind his back, and the crowned wolf brooch sat at his breast. Clara did a small double-take as they came closer. It hadn't been that long since they had seen each other, yet Prince Ciarán looked noticeably taller. The launch settled against the pier, and the party disembarked to the sound of a hundred boots stomping on the ground.

Dame Rowena thumped her fist against her breastplate in salute, and Ciarán approached them.

"Duchess de Bragança. Lord Pedro, Lady Luisa," said Ciarán, with a small bow.

"On behalf of His Majesty the King, welcome back. The Crown extends its congratulations on the successful resolution of the matter in the Empire, and requests the honor of your presence in Elysia City." This doesn't seem like the same bratty kid who snuck into Duke von Rhenia's luggage. Puberty will do that to you, I suppose.

"Your Highness." Bel saluted.

"I suppose even I should not turn down a request that comes with an escort by a prince and three hundred of the King's finest. Let none say your father doesn't know how to flatter a lady." A smirk flickered across Ciarán's mouth.

"The escort is for your protection and honor, Your Grace."

"Of course," said Bel.

"I've never felt so safe. Though I suppose even I admit I am outmatched, faced with your dame." Ciarán smiled proudly, then his pale eyes moved to Clara, and he inclined his head slightly—yet still almost certainly more than a prince at an official function should to a commoner.

"Counsel Casewell. Congratulations on another successful trial. I heard you fought like a true Arcadian."

"Thank you, Your Highness. It seems that trouble follows me wherever I go."

"You will accompany us to Elysia as well, yes? You may not have been included in the King's summons, but I believe you are needed for the preparations for the canonization ceremony. Lochlann has been highly obnoxious—" Rowena elbowed the prince, and he coughed.

"What I mean is, Crown Prince Lochlann has been very much looking forward to it." Clara nodded.

"It would be my honor to join you, Your Highness." Despite her feelings about being forced to participate in a religious ceremony, going to the capital would be a good opportunity to meet the influential people she'd need to talk to about her bill of law. Plus, there was the whole matter of looking into Saintesses and transmigrators and what that meant for both Clara and Helena.

"And it's good to see you too, Dame Rowena." Clara extended her hand. Rowena shook it. Painfully.

"Same to you." Clara tried to wrest her hand out of Rowena's iron grip, but the effort was futile. Remind me to never shake hands with knights again. Ciarán turned to Iris, and the dignity the boy had mustered promptly proved itself temporary.

"Lady Iris. You look shorter than I remembered." There he is. Good to have you back, Ciarán.

"Your Highness." Iris curtsied.

"Have they finally started feeding you properly at the palace? I hope etiquette lessons are soon to follow." Ciarán frowned, though Clara noted, with some amusement, that he had gone slightly pink. He turned away from Iris and waved to a knight, who came forward and saluted.

"We have prepared carriages for you, my lords, my ladies."

"Splendid," said Bel, without a hint of sincerity.

"Let us go and receive recognition for our great service to Arcadia, whether we like it or not." The carriage journey from Fontaineux to Elysia City was long, and Clara spent most of it exhaustingly proofreading her draft bill over and over while the Valois countryside rolled past the window. It was mind-numbing work, but it also made her nostalgic for her internship days. Emma sat beside her, chatting about the trip and the girl's impressions of the 'Duchess Pirate' and the 'Duke Grandpa'.

After learning about Clara's new ambition, she immediately offered to help. And so, during the evenings, when the convoy stopped at local inns for a night's rest, the girl took it upon herself to make copies of Clara's text. It was a welcome aid, as Clara would need spare copies to give to politicians, but probably not so many as to justify paying a printer to set the whole thing in movable type.

At first, Clara worried whether Emma's calligraphy had improved enough for a task like this, where presentation mattered so much. But when she looked at Emma's first full copy of the bill, it became clear such concerns had been misplaced. I guess Ciarán isn't the only one who's growing up fast. Maybe it's harder to notice on Emma because we see each other often, but she's becoming a lovely young woman.

After four days, Clara's backside had already gotten sore despite the plush seats of the royal carriage, and she was practically crying for the Goddess's mercy when the walls of Elysia rose ahead of them. They moved through the city, past Saintess Brigid's house, past the High Court, then finally past another set of even taller walls. And that was when the royal palace came into full view, shining under the meridian sun.

Several tiers of pale towers climbed a single great hill, with sky-high spires connected by long walkways that didn't seem to care for gravity. Its arched white walls and red roofs felt oddly familiar to Clara, but she couldn't quite place them. Maybe Neuschwanstein? Yet despite the comparison, the Arcadian royal palace was far taller than any palace she'd seen in her world.

She wasn't sure if it was bigger than the Byzottoman Hagia Topkapi complex, since the imperial palace was wider than it was tall, but it was enormous by any metric. The carriages passed beneath a gatehouse and stopped at a wide courtyard, where royal guards in ceremonial outfits lined up to receive them in front of the main palace entrance. As the party disembarked, a chamberlain with a golden staff came forward and bowed. Then he took out a scroll and read from it in a deep, resounding voice.

"Her Grace the Admiral-Duchess Isabel de Bragança, Lord Pedro the former duke, Commodore Luisa de Bragança, Lord Conrad and Lady Iris von Rhenia, and Lord Warren Righton of Albion. His Majesty requests the honor of your presence in the Lesser Audience Hall." Conrad clicked his tongue. The 'lesser' hall? That, coupled with sending the second prince to greet them instead of the first… Even to someone as inexperienced in noble politics as Clara was, that sounded like a veiled insult. Bel groaned.

"Straight to work, it seems. No rest for the wicked, eh? Let's get this over with." Clara had to admit she was disappointed, and probably a little offended, that she hadn't been invited to the audience with the King. I defended a former duke, stopped a war, and exposed a shadowy conspiracy by a corrupt high inquisitor. What else does a girl need to do to get recognized by royalty around here? But it wasn't as if she could say anything. She was a 'mere' commoner, and this was the natural order of things.

The nobles were swept off to the King, and Warren caught Clara's eye as he was passing through the great doors of the palace. He nodded to her, and it felt as though there was something more than acknowledgement behind it. Is he up to something? Before she could ponder it, a different palace official approached her, this one with a silver staff.

"Miss Casewell?" She nodded.

"Your presence has been requested as well, for a separate matter. If you would come with me." My presence? Probably about the canonization ceremony, then. I guess I'll just have to go with the flow—they made it very clear my participation was not optional. She followed him through a side entrance that, after a long walk through luxurious corridors and stairs, led into an elegant sitting room furnished with high-backed chairs and overlooking the main courtyard.

Through the window, she spotted Emma giving instructions to the porters handling Iris's trunks. Clara sat and spread her limbs against the plush velvet. After so long on a ship and then a carriage, even a waiting room felt like a luxury. And yet, something was bothering her, a prickle on the back of her neck. At first, she thought it was simply her exhaustion catching up to her, but the feeling kept building. The air grew increasingly heavy until it pressed against her chest. Her skin crawled.

Some animal instinct inside her told her to run, to go hide somewhere where this mounting dread could not find her. Am I having a panic attack? It made no sense, but she didn't have any other explanation for how her body was reacting. She pressed her hands against her cheeks and tried to breathe through it, which didn't help, as the feeling steadily got worse. There was a certainty in her that something indescribably dangerous was moving toward her.

She stood up and faced the door, her hand reaching for the wand in her satchel. Then the door opened. The woman who entered wore rich white-and-gold robes, and atop her short white hair was a conical hat decorated with two crossed golden keys. Her deep amber eyes were fixed on Clara's, and her expression was just as impassive as Clara remembered. The Pope.

The closer she got to Clara, the more overwhelming the pressure felt, to the point Clara was hard-pressed to even remain standing, like a flood of energy was about to sink her. Was this the Pope's staggering magical power? Clara hadn't felt anything like this back in the High Court trial, but she didn't have her magical energy then, so perhaps that had made her unable to notice it. Beside the Pope walked a woman Clara didn't recognize. She was older, perhaps in her fifties or early sixties.

Her gray hair was tied in a crown braid, and she wore a deep plum-purple jerkin adorned with golden fringes and tailored like armor. Around her high collar was a pale-yellow ascot, and on top of it all was a long crimson cape that went all the way down to her knee-high leather boots. Clara eyed her with suspicion. After Leofric and Aldric, she'd learned not to trust clergy in red.