The Unicorn Hunters: A Novel(41)

He rubbed a hand over his face. “Why do you think, Madame? To watch for a sign from the korriganed. Even I do not know whether I told the duchess the truth, for I cannot remember how I came to know what I told her. But I am greatly afraid.” As he spoke, the shouting in Nantes rose to such a pitch as to be audible even on the walls of the castle of the dukes of Brittany. “Is that revelry?” whispered the stranger, looking into the city. “Or have they had a sign after all?” He raised lovely amber-gold eyes to her face. He turned back. “Can you save the duchess? I do fear she is in danger.”

“I intend to,” said Marguerite grimly. “In the meantime, I wish to hear your story.”

The diviner bowed. “Then I will contrive to visit you, Madame,” he said.

“I wonder you are not guarded,” she retorted, and was disquieted by his very faint smile.



Elesbed, who had left Butter asleep before the kitchen fire and crept out to see the elephants, bolted back to the castle when the Triumphal Entry dissolved into chaos.

She had hardly regained the courtyard when she heard the clatter of enormous hooves and the baron of Avaugour galloped in with Isabeau on his saddlebow. He handed her down and said something to her in French, and Isabeau nodded. “Go up to Hawiz,” added Henri, and Elesbed understood that. Her French was improving fast. Avaugour wheeled the horse round, thundering back out across the drawbridge and into Nantes.

Elesbed ran over to Isabeau.

“Oh, it’s you,” said Isabeau. She caught Elesbed’s sleeve. “There was a sign from the korrigan-king at the Entry. I’m sure of it. An enchantment! It happened! Did you see?”

Elesbed had had eyes only for the elephants. “Your brother will keep your sister safe,” she said, trying to be reassuring.

Isabeau did not seem to hear. “I have to talk to Moreau again.”

“What? Why?”

“Never you mind. It is just that I have an idea. We must go now, while everyone is in Nantes.”

“Don’t you want to wait for the duchess?”

Isabeau shook her head instantly, her whole body set in lines of stubbornness.

Elesbed said, “I don’t think it’s a good idea.”

“Then you may go back to Hawiz and darn socks.” Isabeau was being haughty, which meant she was uneasy.

Elesbed didn’t answer. Nor did she go back to Hawiz.

Only chance had got Isabeau past the stranger’s guarded door last time, but this time she armed herself with a basket of marchpane and a look of untold ferocity. Elesbed hoped it wouldn’t work.

But when Elesbed and Isabeau came to Moreau’s room in the old Roman tower, there were no guards at all.

The door was slightly ajar. Faint shadows crawled down it, as though rain spattered some window nearby, but it was not raining.

Elesbed clutched Isabeau by the arm, which, she remembered belatedly, was not something one did to great people. She said, “Something is wrong.”

Isabeau just shook her off, squared her shoulders. “We meet all dangers bravely,” she said, to Elesbed’s annoyance. “Come on.” She pushed the door open.

But the room contained no dangers. Moreau was sitting quietly on his chair, alone near the fire, his head tipped into his hand. He was holding a cup loosely in the other. He looked quite well, if thoughtful.

He started up when they walked in. Isabeau halted so that Elesbed almost ploughed into her, clutching the basket to her chest.

“What has happened?” he asked them urgently. “I heard a great noise in the city and my guards all left me.” Then he seemed to recognize Isabeau. He bowed. “Demoiselle, forgive my appalling manners. Will you sit down?”

Isabeau said, cautiously, “I brought you marchpane.” She put the basket into his hands.

He smiled. “You are kind, Demoiselle.” He ate a piece.

Isabeau said, “Why is the door unlocked?”

“I do not know. I heard my guards go. I went—I am ashamed to say that I went out, to see what was toward. I went out to the wall-top. But only to listen and breathe the free air. I returned to my room in haste so none should mistrust me. I have felt your mistrust these last days. I would have asked my mirror, but I have none.” He sounded sad about it. “I’ve been trying to see reflections in the wine, but it is nearly useless.”

“Mirror?” said Isabeau. “Is that your means of divination?”

He spread his hands self-deprecatingly. “It is. I am a captromancer.”

Isabeau said, “There was a barrel in the street of Nantes that wouldn’t stop running salt water. No matter what anyone did. People were frightened. Was that the sign of the korrigan-king?”

“Perhaps,” Moreau said grimly. “I hope not. God, I hoped with all my heart that I had been wrong with that message. I’d as lief be a madman as to bring danger upon you or your noble sister.”

Isabeau whispered, “I won’t let any korrigan-king take away my sister.”

Moreau bowed and said, “Brave-hearted lady, I only wish I could help you.”

Isabeau took two eager steps forward and put out her hands. “Maybe you can. Have you remembered anything? Of the Lost Lands?”

He frowned as though in an effort of memory. “No. But—Demoiselle—if you could persuade your sister to give me a mirror? A proper one. I should—I think I should be able to remember more, to do more. Even to help. I understand why I am kept under lock and key. I should do the same, if positions were reversed. But I am not your enemy, and I was a great diviner once.”