Arvid Bonde laid aside his fork. You need to rein yourself in at table, he thought, or you'll get fat like Eldred. Though Eldred's no doubt getting thinner now.
Bonde had long been vain about his physique, and at thirty-five years considered himself in his prime. From early youth he'd practiced regularly with weapons and at military horsemanship, but as regent he'd been too busy. These past few days, his only exercise had been in bed, with Elvi the eager, the insatiable. Well, not quite insatiable. She no longer required another go when she woke up.
This morning he was to inspect the 1st Rifles, newly back from the Knees. He'd wear his blue sash, he decided, in honor of the victory there.
Elvi came into the room wearing a light robe. The morning air was cool. "Good morning, nymph," he said.
"Good morning, mighty stallion," she answered. "I've been thinking."
"Ah? What about?"
"I want to be king."
"King?"
"Yes, I know: women who rule are called queens. But I want to be king, and I want you to help me, as my prince consort."
"Hmh! I believe I could do that. But Sota already has a king. Will he approve?"
"My father is insane. You told me so yourself. He'd be better off—happier—with the angels."
Bonde's brief frown was serious. With the angels? She's inviting me to do him in! "Shall we hold off till the war is over? Your father's death would cause turmoil in the palace, and Mazeppa is on his way north with an army much larger than ours. Let's give your uncle Jaako and his armsmen time to deal with the Dkota. Then we'll make you king."
Bonde took another sip of sassafras, then restirred it. He liked lots of honey in his tea, and it tended to settle out. Putting Elvi on the throne, especially with himself as consort, would be easier if Jaako's army took heavy casualties. Especially if Jaako was one of them.
"How long will it be before they beat the Dkota?" Elvi asked.
"The 2nd Rifles should join Jaako tomorrow, at a place named Dindigul. That's where he plans to break the invasion. His battalion of ordinaries should get there later today."
"Then the battle should be won by the day after, and Uncle Jaako may be back on Friday. We need to take care of father before that; give the palace and town time to get used to it." She nodded, as if coming to a decision. "Father will die tonight, of apoplexy, and tomorrow we'll move into the royal apartments, with a real bath, and sauna."
Bonde looked startled. "Don't worry," Elvi said. "I'll announce daddy's death to the staff as soon as we discover it, and send the royal heralds to announce it through town in the morning." She smiled, then bent, her robe parting at the top, and kissed Bonde on the lips. He felt his loins stir. "I'll design a prince consort's crown for you," she added. "You'll look so handsome! And Uncle Jaako is too old to command the army. That will be your other job. I'll retire him to his estate. He's always spent as much time there as he could. His lake is beautiful, and fishing is his favorite pastime now. He told daddy he got tired too easily to care for hunting anymore."
For a moment Bonde was stunned, as if he'd been run over by a team and wagon, but he shook it off. If Eldred was to die, why not today? The more awkward matter was explaining Elvi's presence in the palace. What had she been doing there? And why hadn't people known?
As for prince consort? A foot in the door, a further chance to prove himself. And with Elvi, things would be more than interesting. She'd have no trouble at all making decisions.
He excused himself, saying he needed to send a page to Captain Manty, delaying the inspection till midafternoon. Then he'd see to Eldred's apoplexy. As he walked to his office, another thought struck him: he still hadn't done anything about Mary. She might be in a nunnery, but that didn't mean she'd stay there. She'd hardly be more than a postulant yet. And if she returned, Elvi would want her dealt with, he did not doubt. What explanation could he come up with for that?
For now he'd hope Mary would remain a religious. It seemed likely, but . . . He wondered if she was half as good in bed as Elvi. She'd always seemed so virginal. But he'd never imagined Elvi interested in coupling, either. At least from a little distance she'd seemed boyish, even after she'd grown breasts.
Mary would be saner by a mile and a half, but a bird in the hand was worth two on the roof. And in bed—the elder twin might prove frigid as an ice statue.
Don't worry, he told himself. She knew she was Eldred's chosen when she went off to Sanlooee, and went anyway.
Captain Eli Carnes, Bonde's adjutant, stopped at the distance prescribed when entering the royal presence, but instead of bowing, he saluted. "You sent for me, Colonel."
Rumor had it that Captain Uuka arranged disappearances. Carnes would know whether or not it was true. "Send me Uuka," he said, watching Carnes's eyes. "Privately. Do you understand?"
Carnes nodded. "Yes, your lordship, I quite understand."
The regent's gaze was hard. "And say nothing of this to anyone."
"Of course, your lordship."
Bonde watched him leave. Interesting, that switch from "colonel" to "your lordship," and directly after asking for Uuka.
Carnes strode down the corridor feeling grateful that Bonde was turning to Uuka for whatever this business was. He didn't want to know any more about it.
Carnes had been Eldred's adjutant, too, and when His Majesty wanted someone to disappear, he'd send Carnes to Uuka, his intelligence chief. Uuka would then turn to Corporal Djati; that was the belief among the old hands, and he had reason to credit it. Carnes wanted nothing to do with Djati. The man was a troll. Worse. Over the years he'd risen twice to sergeant, and been broken to private each time, for acts of insane rage. Men had quit the service because they were afraid of offending him. Djati would have been discharged, or worse, but Eldred had come up with another solution.
Carnes recalled a royal dinner party for in-laws. He and His Majesty had been in their cups, and stepped out on a balcony for fresh air. The king had just pardoned Djati for a senseless, brutal beating, and transferred him to dungeon master. Carnes had asked why.
"Compassion," Eldred had replied blandly, then frowned, tasting the word. "Compassion. If I discharge him, send him out into the population, he'll commit much worse outrages than he has in the service. End up hung or beheaded. But as dungeon master he'll provide a benefit. There are things a king needs done that cannot be dealt with by laws."
The dungeon at Hasty Castle was bigger than it appeared. Except for its small office and guard quarters, it existed below ground, along damp unventilated corridors lit sparsely by stinking oil lamps. What little light reached its inmates penetrated, like the lamp fumes, through twelve by six-inch openings in the doors—openings that could be shut from outside. Prisoners breathed a miasma of lamp fumes and their own body wastes.
The stone walls, stone floors, short maze-like corridors and heavy oaken doors effectively muffled sound. The dungeon seldom had more than a handful of inmates, rarely more than one on a corridor, and never more than one in a cell. Just now, because of recent arrests for sedition, it held more than a dozen, distributed to prevent prisoners from calling back and forth.
It was Corporal Djati's personal domain, and just now he strutted through its corridors followed by two henchmen, men who laughed at the right times. Toadies to whom no order was too outrageous to carry out. Even aping Djati's swagger, they slunk.
All three were of middle height, and strong, Djati the largest, squat and powerful. More important were their similarities of limitations and attitudes. They were able to function only in a simple, narrow context, which the dungeon provided. The world at large was too dangerous to cope with. And each recognized only one human being: himself. Everyone else was simply part of the environment: deadly, threatening, and beyond understanding. Also, their cruelty provided more than pleasure. It provided security—irrational and precarious, but a sort of security: the power of fear, of vengeance.
It was to the most remote cell they marched. There Djati handed the lamp to one of his men, and used the key himself. They went in. Eldred did not cower in a corner like the archbishop. For fifteen years he'd been king, and the abuses visited on him here had not made him forget that, even squealing with pain. For Djati had no sense of loyalty, none at all. And the order not to torture Eldred, he'd interpreted to mean acts that maimed; that visibly damaged the body. If the results were not conspicuous, it wasn't torture.
At any rate, this morning he had another purpose: He'd been given a small flask of wine, mixed with unnamed powder, and told to see that Eldred drank it. That was the extent of the order. But Djati knew the drill; that night there'd be another order.
The lamp flame glittered in his black eyes. "I have a drink for you, Your Majesty," he said. "Wine from your own cabinet."
Eldred said nothing, simply clamped his mouth shut.
"Come now, Your Majesty, don't be difficult." One of the toadies snickered. Djati turned and scowled, and the snicker cut off. "Hold his arms," he ordered.
The man who held the lamp put it on the floor in the far corner; then the toadies grabbed Eldred's arms. He resisted furiously, but after a struggle they levered them behind him, twisting so he cried out. With fierce fingers, Djati gripped Eldred's nose painfully, so he'd have to open his mouth to breathe. With his other hand, he held the flask ready.
Eldred foiled him, breathing between slitted lips, and when the flask was brought to them, he shook his head from side to side. With a sudden oath, Djati let go the royal nose, drew the dagger at his belt, and gashing lips, pried Eldred's teeth apart. Blood flowed from lips, gums, tongue. Eldred roared, lashing his head, worsening the damage but avoiding the flask.
A growl swelled from Djati's throat. "Jong," he said, "take both arms and don't let them go. Owens, grab his hair and hold his head still." He helped them, till panting and cursing they got it done. "Now, Your Majesty," he said chuckling, "it's time to drink." With the pommel of his dagger, he smashed already ruined lips, and broke clenched teeth. "Pull his head back." It was done. Now the defiance was gone; Eldred's eyes were wide with fear. Djati pushed the mouth of the flask into the bloody opening and poured. Poured till the flask was empty, some of the contents inside the king, some out, some on Djati. The king gagged, first on blood and wine, then on his own thin vomit. The gagging repeated, once, twice, as he struggled, then weakened. After a minute or two he was either dead or moribund.
They left him lying in his own blood and puke. They'd return with a bucket of water and a broom, strip him, and clean the worst of the filth off the body before bundling him up.
Carnes caught Bonde just about to go to the quadrangle. The 1st Rifles were waiting. "Your lordship!" he said, in little more than a whisper, "this is urgent!"
Bonde felt fear grip his gut. "Out with it then." He spoke as softly as his adjutant.
"That goddamned Djati. He . . . took care of His Majesty. With poison. But the king refused to drink willingly, so he smashed his mouth to pour it in. His lips are all gashed and split, and his front teeth are broken out. We dare not show him to the public, or even the embalmers."
Oh shit! That stupid bastard! "How did it happen?"
"Djati says his orders were to see that the king drank the wine. So he did 'what was necessary.' Apparently before, the bodies were disposed of secretly, not shown to anyone. They'd tie a bag over the head, wrap the body in canvas, and at midnight, Uuka would send someone with a horse cart to haul it away. Bury it somewhere. Djati thought this would be done the same way."
Bonde's gut shriveled to a heavy knot. He took a deep breath and exhaled. "All right. I'll think of something. Right now, though, I've got to inspect troops. Stay here. Right here. I'll be back in half an hour."
Carnes saluted. "Yes your lordship!"
As Bonde walked to the quadrangle, thoughts crowded his mind. Pretend a plot to rescue the king. The royal corpse could be spirited from the dungeon that night just as Djati expected, by men in disguise—or better, have some living man pretend to be him. Have him smuggled out by "rescuers" on horseback. Other men would follow, and they'd pretend to fight. And the pretended king . . . No, that would never work. Too many people involved; too many tongues to wag; too many things to go wrong.
By the time Bonde met with the 1st Rifles, he'd decided: The king would simply disappear, as other men before him. Late at night. But not buried. Hauled to the dump, with firewood buried by hay; fires were always burning there. Burn the body. Ash it. Break the bones up too fine to identify as human. Or maybe lime them—Uuka would know—and bury them amidst the other refuse. The resulting suspicions would require delaying the royal succession, but he'd work things out.
That evening Corporal Albin Blom came to Paddy Glynn. He'd been given an order by Captain Uuka, he said, bypassing the sergeant major. At eleven that night he was to sign out a team and cart from the stable, along with a short load of hay and a short rick of firewood, then pick up the kitchen trash. (Kitchen trash? The intelligence chief?) Then drive to the dungeon guard house, where Corporal Djati would load another bundle of trash. He, Blom, was to haul it all to the dump. "And I'm afraid what the bundle might be," Blom finished.
Or who it might be, Paddy thought. Luis very much wanted the king alive; he had a role for him in the peace. And regicide, if that's what this was, would set a terrible precedent. Quietly Paddy gathered four men he trusted for their honesty, toughness, and competence. Then, armed, they went to the dungeon guardhouse together, and found the three guards with a pitcher of beer, playing cards. Saber in one big fist, Paddy ordered Djati to take them to the king. "You two," he ordered the others, "come along."
Then Paddy and his four men followed Djati and his two down to the bottom level. At the foot of the stairs, three oil lamps burned on a ledge. "Jong, take a lamp," Djati ordered. Jong did, and they started for the dead king's cell.
Djati didn't really plan, he simply intended: Go to the king's cell, send Jong in ahead, gesture Glynn and his men to follow, then slam the door behind them. Lock it and close the shutter. Then get something that when burned, would give off poisonous smoke. Uuka would know; he'd get it for him. Come back, open the shutter, dump the something inside, throw in burning lamp oil . . .
Djati's pulse raced with anticipation. When they reached the cell, he took the key from his belt, unlocked the door and pulled it open. "Go ahead Jong," he said, and the man stepped inside.
Paddy, however, didn't follow the script. "You next, Djati," he ordered.
Djati had lived by the premise that if anything went wrong, act at once. His right hand flashed to his dagger—and almost as quickly the heel of Paddy's hand slammed forward, taking Djati between the eyes and catapulting him unconscious into the cell, the dagger clattering on the stone floor. Owens fought wildly but very briefly. Slugged, and slammed against a wall, he too lay quickly unconscious. Jong, on the other hand, froze—surrendered without a fight. He'd been the one with the best weapon, the open oil lamp.
Paddy tried the key on the next cell. It opened; apparently one key served all. They dragged the two unconscious jailers into it and locked them inside. Then, finally, Paddy entered Eldred's cell with the lamp. What he saw sickened him. What have I done! he thought.
Briefly he questioned Jong, who proved anxious to please. He laid the blame on Djati, of course, which was where it mainly belonged.
When Paddy knocked at Brookins' door, Sir Lawrence was working by lamplight, entering debits against inventories. In the past, his servant would have handled the interruption, but Terence was one of those who'd fled the town, whether inspired more by the internal discord or Mazeppa's armies, Brookins didn't know. "Who is it?" he called.
"Sergeant Glynn, sor." The answer was barely loud enough for Brookins to hear. The old nobleman got up hesitantly, then decided, and moved quickly; Glynn was a man to trust. He opened the door, and after a final glance up and down the hall, Glynn entered.
"Sor," he said, "you're a man well-known and respected. And its necessary that oi take action now. Against Colonel Bonde. But oi don't want bloody skirmishes in the corridors again."
He spoke in a near whisper. "Eldred is dead in the dungeon, murdered by Corporal Djati. They brutalized him; he looks terrible. Oi've witnesses to the act, Djati's men. One of them's told me everything. And Corporal Blom's been ordered by Captain Uuka to transport a body secretly, which probably means Colonel Bonde's behind it. Uuka can tell us, and maybe Carnes."
Brookins nodded. He knew palace lore, the true and the untrue.
"If you can get Captain Ylvessalo and maybe Captain Horn to back me," Paddy went on, "oi'll take some men and arrest the colonel. Oi think we can do it without violence."
Brookins wondered what Jarvi would think of that. Probably he'd approve; at any rate it seemed necessary. "Very well, sergeant," he said, "let's talk with Ylvessalo."
It was then Paddy remembered the archbishop: it was like a punch in the gut! Clonarty was in the dungeon too! He'd ordered him there himself, then forgotten him! Well, first things first.
Paddy and two guardsmen found Bonde literally with his pants down, in his office toilet with no weapon at hand. The sergeant major dealt courteously with him, waiting outside the door while the indignant regent tidied himself. When Paddy told him what he'd seen and learned, Bonde caved in, and the sergeant major led him to the dungeon.
With Bonde locked up, Paddy asked to see the archbishop. "Sergeant," the new dungeon keeper said quietly, "I don't think you'll like what you find. When I came on duty, the first thing I did was look in on my lodgers. The archbishop was terrified; he pleaded, begged. I tried to settle him down, but it took several minutes before he stopped his clamor. Then he curled up in a corner and wept. He wouldn't look at us, or say another word. I believe he's lost his mind."
God forgive me, Paddy prayed silently.
"Later I had Armsmen Morgan and Contreras provide all the prisoners with a lamp, water and broom, to clean their cells. When that was done, each was given more water and a bowl of soap to clean himself. And a clean shift to wear. But the archbishop cleaned neither cell nor self. He just huddled there, weeping."
Paddy gusted a sigh. "Let's see him," he said.
When they got there, the cell door was ajar. "I left it like that," Corporal Grosman said. "I thought when he noticed—if he noticed—it might help."
Paddy dismissed the jailer, and with broom and water, scrubbed the cell himself, quickly and thoroughly, all the while talking calmly to Clonarty. The activity stilled the weeping, but the cowering persisted, though it seemed to Paddy the man peeked past a sheltering arm. By the time the scrubbing was finished, Grosman was back with basin, soap, and the rest. There was no dry place for the towel and shift, so Paddy had the corporal hold them, then took the rest to the archbishop, who shrank away from him.
"Yer reverence," he said, "Corporal Djati's locked away. He'll never trouble you again. Here now, oi've water and soap for ye. And Corporal Grosman has a towel and clean shift for when yer done washing. After that we'll have someone bring your own clothes to ye, and take you home."
Slowly, cautiously, Clonarty straightened a bit. "First leave my room," he whispered. "I'll not disrobe before you."
"Of course, yer reverence."
Perhaps the poor man was coming around.
(Luis)
I'd been cagey when I told Fong why he and his rifle company were going with me, saying only that the king was dead, and there was trouble at Hasty. Carlos had brought me up to date soon after we left Dindigul, so on our first break I gave Fong a fuller picture. He assumed, of course, that I'd received a messenger at Dindigul—how else could I have heard?—and he wasn't happy about that. He thought I hadn't trusted him to know till we were away from the stockade, away from the rest of Jarvi's troops.
But I nonetheless had Jarvi's letter of authority.
Then I announced the king's death to the troops: They knew of course that he'd been locked in the dungeon; they'd heard that before they'd left Hasty, and had pretty much approved. Now I told them that on Colonel Bonde's orders, the king had been murdered. Beaten, stabbed in the face, then poisoned. When it was learned that the execution order came from Bonde, the palace guard had arrested him for regicide, and locked him in the dungeon. Captain Uuka had also been jailed. He'd been the go-between, who'd delivered the order to Corporal Djati, who'd done the actual killing.
Till then, Fong's men weren't sure I was telling the truth, but mentioning Djati changed that. I could feel it: they despised and hated the man. On the other hand, telling them Lord Brookins was acting as regent had little effect. These weren't palace guard. Few or none of them, other than Fong himself, had heard of Brookins.
Bonde they knew well. He was a genial officer, big, good-looking and soldierly, with a reputation as a horseman, swordsman, and supposedly cocksman. And they assumed he'd had the king done in because of Eldred's refusal to defend his country and people. The brutality had been Djati's.
What I told them next was even more troublesome: the palace guard held the palace, and the key to Bonde's cell. But the 1st Rifles held the town, and weren't letting anyone or anything into the palace now, including food. Until, they said, Bonde was reseated as regent. Our job, I told them, was to break the siege: talk Captain Manty into letting Sotan law determine who would rule, and letting Bonde and Uuka stand trial.
Meanwhile, I went on, Lord Brookins had sent a message to Princess Mary, in Sanlooee, asking her to come home as quickly as she could. It was widely believed her father had intended her as his successor. Actually I was being selectively honest there. Brookins had sent a messenger, but Carlos had already radioed the brother house near Sanlooee. They were to notify the hospital convent at once.
Tahmm hadn't volunteered to fly her up though; that would be a major breach of policy. Besides, the odds were she'd be on her way home no later than the next day. Though she wouldn't reach Hasty for maybe three weeks; it was upstream all the way.
The break cost us an hour on the road, but it was necessary. And afterward I didn't push as hard as I might have.
It was early evening when we made camp just outside Big Ditch Junction. The mosquitoes were fairly bad there, despite the dry summer, because of all the marshland to the east, but there was nothing I could do about that. The troops pitched their squad tents, and afterward made smudge fires on the side facing what breeze there was, while I went to the Last Stop Inn to see if the innkeeper would sell me two kegs of beer. He was glad to; he'd had zero travelers stop there since Lemmi and me.
His brewer shipped his beer in twelve-gallon oak kegs, so I got twenty-four gallons. It came to a bit less than two pints per man, not much for armsmen, and they were bound to suspect my motives: I was trying to get on the good side of them. But the brew was good, and free, and they'd appreciate it, and meanwhile no one would be sick or hung over from two pints of beer.
I borrowed a trestle table to set the kegs on, and each man had a pint mug in his camp gear. Fong and I had charge of the spigots, and when the men had lined up by platoons, I told them each man would get one full mug the first time, and part of a mug the second. Then Fong and I started serving.
Actually I'd had their good will before we left Dindigul; I just wanted to repair it. When Lemmi and I had first met them on the Austin Road, the word had passed through the ranks that we were Higuchians. Which interested them right off, because of the Higuchian reputation. Then at Dindigul we'd fought together, which made me good with them—unless and until I proved otherwise. Some had seen me jump off the stockade to confront Mazeppa, and been impressed, and those who hadn't seen it would have heard about it, with no loss in the telling.
And not least of all, they felt good about themselves. They'd done major damage to the invader, and having mostly been in the blockhouses, rifleman casualties had totaled only four wounded, none severely. They were in a mood to be generous.
While they drank, Fong got with the 1st sergeant to set up watches, not for security, but to keep the smudge fires alive so the men would sleep better. Some of the men drank their firsts pretty quickly, and were back early for seconds. So after a bit, I passed the word that everyone who wanted seconds—which was all of them—should line up by squads. If their mug wasn't empty, we'd give them their seconds on top.
We did a pretty good job of judging. When the last man had been served, what remained went to the senior sergeants for thirds. Then the 1st sergeant detailed men to return the table and empty kegs to the inn.
Fong and I strolled after them through a pleasant summer night. I ordered a bucket of beer for the two of us, and we went to a table at one end of the otherwise empty tap room. The innkeeper brought the bucket, and we ladled our mugs full with the dipper provided.
I knew Fong had to be curious, so I waited for him to start the conversation. It didn't take long; maybe two swigs.
"You're not a king's man," he said. "Where did the money come from for the kegs?"
"From Norlins. The Holy Father."
"And your authority to spend it like this?"
"Same place. Norlins knew last winter what Mazeppa had in mind. We just didn't expect it so soon. And of course Norlins knew that Eldred was a molli. So Master Lemmi and I were detailed to come up here and see if we could prevent the war. If we couldn't prevent it, we were to see that Sota won, which it has. Norlins also knew the war would end up with Eldred deposed, and there'd be the matter of succession to deal with. There might even be civil war, and who knew what kind of government. Except for defense, Eldred was a pretty good king."
Fong nodded. "So," he said, "meanwhile we drink the pope's beer." He finished his mug and ladled another. I was a little slower. "Who do you want for king?" he asked me.
"Mary's the one with the best claim. But she'd have to want the job, and there'd have to be enough support for her among the dukes. If she doesn't want it, or they're not willing for her to have it, Elvi's next in line, but the dukes wouldn't go for Elvi. So if not Mary, then someone else. And that's where the main danger lies; of civil war. Jarvi would suit me, but I doubt he'd take it. He might agree to be regent though, while something else is arranged. Or—"
I let it hang there, and we both drank. After a minute I added: "Bonde seems to want the regency, at least, and he has support within the army. And we don't know all the circumstances of Eldred's murder. But it would set a terrible precedent to crown the man who'd ordered the king's death, if in fact Bonde's the guilty party."
Now I was getting to my main reason for buying this extra beer; we'd be up pissing half the night. "I don't really know Bonde," I said. "What kind of person is he?"
Bonde and Fong were kinsman; I'd had that from Jarvi—members of that loosely defined class lumped as cousins of the queen. Fong took another swig. "I was never close to Arvid," he told me, "so what I can give you is mostly hearsay. Family lore. I've always been a line officer, and Arvid's always been staff. He ended up in charge of all the training. He's a helluva good horseman, letter perfect in cavalry skills, and the men have always liked him."
I'd been keeping an eye on Fong's aura. "Who doesn't like him?" I asked.
That took him by surprise. "His parents, actually. His mother didn't care much for children, so she farmed out the mothering to nannies. And if Arvid didn't like a nanny—say one of them crossed him—he'd go crying to Lovisa. That's his mother. And she'd fire the nanny. At least that's the family lore. Apparently he was pretty spoiled."
"What about his father?"
"Einar didn't like him at all."
That came with another interesting aural reaction. "Why not?" I asked.
The captain emptied his mug; he was wishing this conversation hadn't begun. The beer was getting low, so I poured him a refill from the bucket. "I've got some difficult decisions to make," I went on, "and I need all the information I can get. Especially about Arvid Bonde."
He nodded glumly and took another swig. "It's been rumored in the family that Einar didn't think he was the father, though I never heard anyone else suggested. Anyway, when Arvid was a baby, Einar never bounced him on his knee, never blew on his little belly, never ate his little face the way fathers do, that makes them squeal and laugh.
"Then, when Arvid was seventeen, he got one of the maids pregnant. That's not so rare, but this one was only twelve years old, and supposed to be slow-witted. Einar thrashed him for that, really cuffed him around. A big strong man. Then Lovisa raised holy hell with Einar. His beating on Arvid upset her a lot worse than Arvid's getting the child pregnant.
"So Einar told Lovisa fine, he's yours; I wash my hands of him. And supposedly he never spoke to Arvid again, not even at table. Wouldn't surprise me a bit. Einar was a hardhead."
After that, neither of us said anything more till we'd finished the beer.
The next day, at the West Crossing ferry dock, we found a sign giving new service hours—nothing before noon unless you hired a man with a rowboat. The surge of refugees from the Marches and Kato was days past, and normal travel was dead. To swim the horses across, we'd have to unload the packhorses and wait for someone to ferry the gear. So taking a squad of riflemen, I went to find the owner-skipper of the largest ferry barge. By that time of morning the village was well awake, and in thirty minutes I had the skipper and eight oarsmen at the dock. All of them unhappy, because by law they couldn't charge us. Nor did telling them we'd just whipped the Dkota at Dindigul brighten them as much as I'd expected. To them, I suppose, it seemed like an anti-climax, after Gallagher's army had been broken at the Knees.
What did brighten them was my paying nine pieces of Norlins silver—one for each oarsman and one for the ferryman. Not as much as the ferryman would ordinarily make, but very good money for the oarsmen. Also we did our own rowing, south to north, then they'd recross the river empty, to pick up another load. In three hours the whole company was across, men and horses.
There weren't many people on the road to Hasty, either, but to those we met, we announced the victory at Dindigul. And now the villages at both landings knew. Before long, all of Sota would. Good news, if interesting enough, travels as fast as bad.
We got to Hasty in the middle of the day, to find the town gates closed, but the guards opened them for us without being asked. They were allied to the 1st Rifles, and thought we were too. We told them about the victory at Dindigul, but they didn't seem greatly relieved. Their minds were on the local troubles. I'd expected we'd be hailed as saviors of the kingdom; it would help in straightening things out. But it wasn't happening.
The streets were quiet. A lot of people had left when the Dkota took the warpath, and few had come back despite the victory at the Knees. Those who remained were worried about a fight between Manty's 1st Rifle Company, backing Bonde, and Ylvessalo's garrison company and Horn's platoon supporting the palace guard.
For years Eldred had been an affable ruler who'd provided decent government. And when the Dkota invaded—he'd virtually invited them—people had been less angry than disillusioned. That's how popular he'd been. It was claimed he'd gone mad, that a palace coup had locked him in the dungeon, murdered him, set up a kinsman of his wife as regent. And who knew what would happen next?
I wished Jarvi was with us. He was prominent, respected, and a good man. But as they say back in Mizzoo, wishing won't buy you a twist of forty-rod.
Halldor Halvorsen, the produce boy, had continued to deliver vegetables. He needed income till it was safe to go home again. Meanwhile he'd found a girl who liked him, a farmer's daughter at the co-op market, who sold what the farmers sent to town. On this particular day, while delivering to the palace, the gates there were shut and barred, closing him inside. The palace, said the guards, was officially under siege.
The only thing Halldor could think of to do was push his empty cart back to the unloading dock and ask advice. From the new 4th usher, Carlos, who seemed like a good guy. Maybe he could help.
"You're in luck," Carlos told him. "We're short-handed in housekeeping." Then he took him to the housekeeper, and she'd sent him to livery. There a small, baldheaded man had given him a quick but knowledgeable look, pulled a wooden hanger from a long rod, and from it took an ash-gray work shirt and breeches. They fitted nicely. "Your own shoes all right," he said. "Now go back to Mrs. Hah."
Housekeeping. To Halldor that smacked of dusting, mopping, washing windows—things hired girls did. Mrs. Hah showed him a diagram of the second floor, and pointed to a small suite. "Go this apartment," she said. "Door unlocked. Roll all rugs, take in corridor. Then come back here. I tell what next."
He found the suite. There was a wardrobe in the living room, and he peered inside. Empty. He rolled up the small rugs, moved the furniture, all of it heavy, onto bared places, then rolled up the large central rug and dragged it out.
Besides the hall door, the living room had two others. He opened one of them and found a bathroom, with a vanity against a wall, a commode with a lid, and a copper bathtub. The floor had two small rugs, one of them covering a trapdoor. Curious, he raised it, peered in, and found a crawl space. Closing it, he took the rugs to the hall, and put them atop the others.
Then he went to the third room, a bedroom. It had a door that opened into a walk-in closet with uniforms. Large uniforms. And more—a shaft of morning sunlight showed him two extraneous legs. Not just uniform legs, but legs in uniform. His first impulse was to close the door and pretend he hadn't noticed, but somehow the words "Oops, excuse me" came out.
"Who are you?" said the legs.
"I'm in housekeeping," said Halldor. "I'm taking the rugs out to be cleaned."
"Halldor? Is that you?"
"Elvi?"
She came out from behind the uniforms. "Oh my god, it is you!" she said. "Halldor! How did you . . . ?"
Briefly they exchanged stories. Very briefly. He needed to get back to Mrs. Hah before she sent someone looking for him.
"A state of siege?" she said. Someone outside wanted in, she realized, to free Arvid. "Look, I haven't eaten since yesterday. And I know a way out of here, out of the palace grounds, without being seen. But it needs to be after dark. Come back this evening. Bring food! Then we'll leave together." She patted his butt. "Well, maybe not right away."
His loins stirred. "Suppose someone else comes?"
"I'll hide in the closet again. Now go."
He left wondering at her bravery. And she planned to be king! What a woman! He'd forgotten all about his bitterness at Zandria. She'd as good as said they'd couple that evening before they escaped. Probably afterward, too, it seemed to him.
(Luis)
With Fong's 2nd Rifles behind me, and Jarvi's letter of authorization, I had no problem getting a meeting with Captain Manty. Fong went with me; he took the letter seriously, and didn't trust Manty. Now that was interesting. Maybe he thought Manty might arrest me, or worse. It turned out Manty was older than Fong by about ten years, and me by closer to twenty, and resented not being senior in grade and authority.
But at the same time he was in a difficult situation. He couldn't storm the palace successfully, and it takes time for sieges to work. Even if the palace wasn't well prepared for one. I didn't tell Manty about Jarvi's wound, and neither did Fong, so for all Manty knew, the old general would arrive in a few days, with his battalion and his own ideas about how to fix things here. Which would hardly include Bonde as regent.
As far as that was concerned, with Freddy giving Jarvi healing sessions, he might still be able to ride in ten days or even less. And with the Dkota beaten, the dukes would be taking sharp interest in the succession.
I didn't point out any of that. Manty knew it, and his aura marked him as a stubborn sonuvabitch. Pressured, he'd likeliest dig in his heals and resist. So I tried sweet reason.
"There's more than just the palace guard inside," I told him. "But I'm sure you know that. There's Ylvessalo's company, and Horn's platoon."
"They don't worry me," Manty said. He lied.
"So what I'd like to do," I went on, "if you'll go along with it, is meet with Brookins and Horn, and make a deal. So you folks don't end up killing each other. They keep the palace, but they move Colonel Bonde out of the dungeon into house arrest. He'll be as comfortable as before, but held on charges of not keeping His Majesty safe while in his custody."
Manty beetled his brows impressively. "I wouldn't trust any of them," he said. "They're in this for the influence and promotion."
"The general won't be," I pointed out. "He'll be here in a week or so, maybe sooner, and no one will hoodwink him."
That did get to Manty. His aura suggested someone whose first response to a situation is emotional, leading to action. Intellect tends to enter in after the fact, to evaluate, rationalize, excuse what he'd done. But hopefully he was taking a fresh look at his own motives now.
"Who'd judge the charges against Bonde?" he asked.
Good. He was thinking. "If Ylvessalo and Horn and Brookins have any sense at all," I said, "they'll leave it to the general. And it might be well to have it all buttoned up before Princess Mary gets here. Brookins has sent for her. It'll take a while, but she'll get here, and I don't know what she'll think when she learns how her father died."
As I said it, it occurred to me I didn't know either. But I was optimistic, especially if Kabibi had any influence on her. Manty, on the other hand, was shaken. He'd forgotten about the princess, and knew how he'd feel if the murdered man had been his father. "Tell you what," I said. "Which of your officers would you trust to go in and see to the colonel's comfort? I'll make that a condition when I talk to Ylvessalo and the others."
Manty felt actual pain, making up his mind. Finally he nodded curtly. "If Jaako trusts you, I suppose I should. And you've spoken fairly enough, I must say."
I could feel Fong's resentment. Manty hadn't included Fong's trust as a factor. Which relieved me somewhat. I hadn't supposed Fong would knuckle under to the older officer, but now I felt sure he wouldn't. And he was the more intelligent of the two. By the time I started for the palace gate, he'd be planning the disposition of his company, just in case Manty thought about catching him flat-footed.
The palace gate guards examined me through a grill-work that wouldn't pass arrows. They were in no mood to let anyone in, I felt that without seeing their auras or even their faces. This project was really bringing that out in me.
And I was a stranger, an unknown quantity. The eyes that peered out at me either didn't recognize my uniform, or didn't like it. So I slipped a wild card out of my sleeve. "I want to talk to Paddy," I said. "Tell him Luis is here."
Carlos had told me Paddy wasn't the boss any longer. He'd gotten rid of that responsibility as soon as he could. Brookins was the man who made decisions now, and Ylvessalo was in charge of carrying them out. But Paddy was the man that Brookins and Ylvessalo trusted to know what was going on, and to get things done; in other words continue as sergeant major of the Guard. And Paddy was one of them. His men more than trusted him. The Guard would talk about Paddy Glynn for a long long time.
"Just a minute," the guard said. "I'll send someone."
Paddy himself let me in, clapping my shoulder. "Oh sor, am oi glad to see you! What can oi do for ye?"
I showed him Jarvi's letter. He scanned it, then I told him briefly why I was there. "Good! Good!" he said. "Oi'll take ye to Lord Brookins. Oh, this is like the sun coming up!"
We left the gate guards awed.
A dozen minutes later I was talking with his lordship and the two captains, Paddy behind me. I didn't have to explain my thinking; they saw the situation basically as I did. We held the cards. All we needed to do, at least for now, was avoid a fight with Bonde's advocates until the general arrived, or Mary if the general didn't recover as quickly as I expected. With every day that passed, Manty'd be worrying, having second thoughts. Which could lead to backing out of the contest—or to some act of desperation.
Now there was a thought. I could imagine a man or men, in uniform on fast horses, rushing south to "see how the general was doing," then killing him, perhaps with poison.
So I asked who might be in this with Manty. Was he acting alone, or as someone's front man, or what?
Both Brookins and Ylvessalo thought Manty was acting on his own, but would have notified Bonde's Uncle Fritjof, who'd headed the Bonde clan since old Einar had died. Manty was the youngest of three surviving brothers, which made him Arvid's Uncle. Apparently Arvid Bonde was the family black sheep, personable and admired, but not always approved of.
Paddy's muse was strong, and he'd recognized almost at once what he faced: an everlasting kettle of aristocratic ambitions and opportunism, that in good times was on the back burner with the lid on, but in times like this could boil over. A situation best dealt with by someone who knew it. So he'd turned to Brookins, who beneath his courteous gentility, knew the game and could play it if he had to.
Brookins and Ylvessalo agreed almost at once to the terms I'd gotten Manty's approval on. Mainly what we talked about were the risks of Bonde's people agreeing, then trying to stab us in the back. Uuka was also in the dungeon, and we agreed that no one from outside would be allowed to contact him.
Finally his lordship sat down to pen a formal legal agreement.
I excused myself to use the toilet, for the usual purposes plus a conference call to Freddy, Tahmm, and Peng. And Carlos, the smartest 4th usher the royal palace would ever have. I warned Freddy of possible risks to Jarvi, and that Mary might be at risk of interception and violence on the river. Maybe Fedor could provide an escort from Moleen north, some brothers in a fast boat, with several well-muscled novices to help with the rowing. I also told Tahmm what I thought of Paddy's work at the palace. "He's been the key to everything good that's happened here," I said. "And that's not to slight Carlos."
I had no doubt at all that Paddy was headed for the Academy when this was over. He'd turn out to be one of the best men the Order ever had, I did not doubt.
For just a moment I thought of Jamila. She'd had even greater potential, till she was murdered. The thought took me so unexpectedly, I almost wept. I'd thought I'd had all the grief drained off that at the Academy.
I couriered the proposal for Brookins myself. He'd signed it as "regent acting for the Crown Princess Mary." Manty's mouth twisted sourly when he read that, but he signed too. It seemed to me he still had hopes of Bonde taking the throne, but I didn't read anything in him that worried me particularly. He'd already decided on his liaison with Bonde: a man who looked enough like Manty to be his younger brother. A cousin I supposed, or nephew, an Ensign Wu. My read was, they'd wait to hear from Arvid Bonde before trying to cook anything up.
After I'd shaken hands with Wu, he went with me to the palace's front gate. We'd see what happened next. Hopefully not much.
Mrs. Hah kept Halldor busy. She intended to clean several unoccupied suites and rooms from floor to ceiling while she had the chance. So he'd stripped them all of their rugs that day. Besides Elvi in Arvid Bonde's old lodging, only one room or suite had a personal item of any consequence at all—a leather-covered flask, holding two or three ounces of brandy, lay flat on a wardrobe shelf. The chamber maid had been too short to see it. Meanwhile the water pitcher remained half full, so from it, Halldor filled the flask before putting it back where he'd found it.
Word of the victory at Dindigul had penetrated the palace, but it didn't reach Halldor's ears. Most of his day was spent hauling rugs to the rug frame out back, and after hanging them up, beating them with a rug beater till his arm was ready to fall off. Mrs. Hah sent a girl to approve his work, and she flunked the first rug she checked. A peasant girl! Humiliating! But he was learning to take setbacks and adapt, so he walloped them all again, thoroughly, and all of them passed her next inspection.
Filching food wasn't as simple as Elvi had assumed. Nothing was, Halldor suspected. Ordering was her job; doing was someone else's. He'd learned that weeks before, but the coupling had made it worthwhile; and it would again, he told himself. He had no access to the staff kitchen, only the staff dining room, where there was no privacy. Meals were served at set times, everyone eating together, ordinarily. But at supper he managed to tuck bread inside his shirt, next to his skin: two slices stuck together with butter, then two more.
After supper he reported back to the housekeeper. "You do good!" she said. "All done till tomorrow. Rest!"
He bobbed an almost-bow, thanked her and left. He'd feared she might discern the bread inside his shirt, but apparently not. One comes to appreciate small victories, he told himself.
He was indeed learning.
Growing up in the palace had given Elvi some sense of the demands and limits on domestic servants, and she showed no sign of impatience when at last Halldor arrived back—with bread and butter, and water with a distinct flavor of apple brandy. She'd bolted the door behind him and kissed him hungrily before asking what he'd brought to eat. She still had water in the laquered pitcher by the wash basin; it was food she was ravenous for. They sat together on the bed while she ate the bread and butter. When she'd finished, they undressed, fondling as they went. Then she rolled him onto his back and mounted. "For I will be king," she murmured, and began to ride.
When they were done, they drank the brandied water. "Your gift of brandy," she called it, and giggled. He'd never heard her giggle before, and felt like the luckiest young man in the world. It showed in his eyes, and sobering, she touched his face with gentle fingers. Arvid would never look at me like that, she thought. "I'm very fond of you, Halldor," she said. "If anything ever happens, I want you to remember that."
His heart melted in his chest.
It was getting dark. She'd lit a lamp earlier—there were phosphorous matches on each lamp shelf—and now, she said, it was time to escape the palace. Then she showed Halldor the closet. Colonel Bonde's clothes were gone. Some men had come and taken them.
"But where . . . how did you . . . ?
"Hide?" She giggled again. "Under the bed. They were guardsmen," she went on. "I could tell by their boots." Sobering she added, "We really have to leave now. I have to save Arvid, and I cannot do it as a prisoner." She looked penetratingly at Halldor. "He is my champion, you understand. Without him I cannot become king."
He nodded, also soberly. Then she led him into the bathroom and raised the trapdoor. "You first," she said. "I'll pass the lamp after you're down. We must be very careful with it."
The opening was small and the space cramped, but he sat down on the edge, then wiggled and slid, and found it adequate. When he was in, he turned over in order to crawl, feet first of necessity. The place smelled of human waste. The toilet pail. Elvi handed down the lamp, which he set carefully to one side, then she followed, also feet first, the only direction possible. "A few feet farther and you can stand up," she said. "You'll be in a passage then."
The passage served the toilets of all the rooms and apartments on that side of the corridor. A clever arrangement, he told himself. A servant could come with clean five-gallon buckets, replace the fouled ones in their frames beneath the commode, and lug the wastes away. Then the contractor would empty them into his odorous wagon, and some unfortunate would clean the empty buckets. It occurred to Halldor he'd been lucky in his job assignment.
The passage was lit by twilight through louvered slots, and by the oil lamp they'd brought. At its end, stairs led down to a ground floor landing, and a longer flight to a cellar smelling of damp stone, where the lamp gave the only light. There they followed a corridor a short distance, to where Elvi opened a side door into a short, narrow, low-roofed tunnel that seemed to dead end. They entered in a crouch. The air smelled and felt as if the tunnel hadn't been opened since the door was hung: dank, heavy, and in spite of its mortared stone walls, smelling of moist soil and tree roots. Halldor's eyes were large and round as he followed Elvi. Even rats, he thought, would not come here.
The dead end was illusion. The tunnel right-angled, then left-angled, then dropped two steps and proceeded straight. Here Halldor could walk upright, barely, stumbling twice on tree roots. It took them sixty or seventy yards, he guessed, then widened a bit and stopped. This dead end was no illusion.
To Halldor it felt like a tomb. "Now what?" he asked.
Crouching, she set the lamp down by the wall, and turned to him. "Now you lift the flagstone overhead, and we climb out. Into a tiny park by the river, outside the palace. Outside the city wall. Daddy showed mother and Mary and me, when we were little. Eight or nine, I think. It was a way we could escape if we were ever in danger."
Halldor looked worriedly at the stones overhead.
"The center one, the round one," she told him.
"It looks heavy."
Her voice sounded strange to him, so matter of fact in such a creepy place. "That's what mama said: 'it looks heavy.' But it's not. Daddy raised it easily, and then he had mama raise it too. It was night, and daddy lifted us out into the little park above the river."
She gestured, stepping behind him. "Go ahead. Lift it."
He raised his hands and pressed. Heavy. Her mother must have been a strong woman. Bending his knees, he pressed upward again with all his strength, grunting. Felt it raise, inches, a foot. "There!" he said. "It's off."
Searing pain struck the back of his neck, and he collapsed to the stone floor, almost knocking Elvi down. She hadn't expected it to be so sudden. Crouching again, she wiped her stiletto on Halldor's breeches, then slipped it into its sheath.
"That didn't hurt, did it," she said, a statement, not a question, her voice unnaturally calm. "I didn't want it to hurt. I like you too much. I like you better than Arvid, quite a lot, even if he is a better lover. But Arvid can make me king, you see. I was born to be king. I practiced and practiced. But Mary'd tricked me; she came out first. She wasn't supposed to. We'd agreed."
Only now did she look upward. No twilight entered from outside. It was as if the stone had fallen exactly into place again. Cold settled over her. Quickly she set herself, reached up, placed her hands on the flagstone and pushed.
It didn't budge. Not an inch. Not a hairsbreadth.
Resetting her feet, bending her knees once more, she tried again, sounds of effort straining from her throat. Nothing.
"Heavier than you thought, isn't it?"
Fear flowed through her like ice, her short hairs rigid, exquisite fear at the limit of bearing. Slowly, holding her breath, she turned and looked down. Halldor lay as if his strings had been cut. Then a greater cold wrapped her, like two arms. "Who?" she whispered.
"Who else?" Halldor's voice was soft. "There are only the two of us here, and we have all the time in the world."
Shrieking, Elvi flailed, staggered away—felt a hand on her foot, like iron, and fell senseless to the stone floor.