Marguerite removed her sheathed dagger from her traveling sack and climbed alongside the unconscious woman. Carefully she lowered the lid, giving it a little shake until the hasp fell Into place. A small gap remained-just enough so she could slide her dagger through the crack and fiddle with the latch; with luck, she could dislodge the pin from the inside, then push the hasp open.
Unfortunately, there was no easy way to secure the pin after she was inside the crate. Left dangling, it might invite investigation, but she had to risk it.
She lay very still in the box. At length, she heard someone coming. A man grumbled sourly. The image of Ekhart sprang to mind. Ljubo spoke in response, whiny and apologetic.
"But it's real heavy," he said. "Wouldn't ask for your help getting her onto the carriage it she weren't so fleshy. And you know Miss Montarri would be mad if I dropped the box and bruised her cargo."
Ekhart groaned. "Let's get on with it. I'll climb in the wagon and push the crate your way to get it off the end."
The wagon rocked as Ekhart climbed into the bed. He stepped to the back of the coffin, near her head, then growled, "Idiot. You've left the hasp undone. I suppose you opened it to get another look?"
Ljubo did not deny it.
The hasp rattled, then Ekhart commanded Ljubo to lift. The two men heaved and groaned. Inside the box, the sound of wood scraping against wood was magnified, deafening. Marguerite felt herself drop as the crate left the wagon bed. The box swayed like a cradle. Then it was lifted onto another support. She heard ropes being dragged over the top and pulled down into place. We must be on the carriage now, she thought, wondering whether it would be necessary to cut through the ropes at some point. She hoped they hadn't been pulled too snugly to prevent her from pushing the lid up enough for her dagger.
Another pain squeezed her belly, and Marguerite bit into her own shoulder to keep from crying out.
"Told you it was heavy," said Ljubo. "Real heavy."
Ekhart grunted. "Not Montarri's usual taste. Must be passing this one on to Count Strahd. A nice plump virgin to offer along with her taxes. Never hurts to appease the local lord."
"She's a clever one, Miss Montarri."
"She's a bitch," retorted Ekhart. "But what woman isn't? Take the carriage around front and wait,"
Marguerite heard Ekhart walking away, then allowed herself to exhale. After a moment, the carriage lurched and began to roll forward. There was a short pause while Ljubo wrestled with the gate, then another lurch forward, another pause, another creak of the doors. Finally the carriage moved along the drive, crunching in the gravel, and came to a rest before the main entrance. Marguerite furrowed her brow, trying to keep her sweat from rolling into her eyes.
it was not long before she heard the lilting tones of Jacqueline Montarri's voice. "Mitos," she cooed. "As always, it has been delicious, I'm so pleased we've put aside our differences, at least for the moment. I hope your son will arrive in good health."
"Zosia says it won't be long," Donskoy replied.
"Really? It seems rather soon."
"Mot to me, my dear. To me, it has been an eternity."
"Well, I must go, Shall I return to you in another moon?"
"See that you do."
Jacqueline purred, "Splendid. I'll have a surprise for you the next time i come. One of my new heads knows some interesting tricks, and I've been practicing."
Donskoy chortled and bade her farewell.
The coach rocked as Jacqueline stepped inside, muttering something softly. Then the carriage began to move again, proceeding down the drive and turning away from the keep.
in her impossibly tight quarters, Marguerite sighed in satisfaction. Soon, she would reach Barovia. It was an unknown destination, and the challenge of escaping the box still lay ahead, but for the moment she didn't care. The worst was behind her. In a few short hours, she would be free of Donskoy and his accursed domain.
NINETEEN
Inside the moving coffin, Marguerite struggled to find a more comfortable position, shoving at the soft flesh of her unconscious companion. Earlier she had imagined this very picture with horror-she, stretched prone in the darkness, encased in a long black box. But in that scene Marguerite had been riding to her doom. Now she was traveling to freedom; she was escaping Lord Donskoy's domain.
She knew, of course, that trials lay ahead, impossible tests of her luck and wit. The carriage that bore her coffin was heading to the unknown land of Barovia instead of her familiar Darkon. And when they reached their destination, she would have to escape the box. Marguerite pictured herself leaping from the coffin with her dagger fiercely slashing, taking an astonished Jacqueline by surprise. The woman's head would tumble off with one swift strike, then she would flap her arms in confusion like a freshly beheaded chicken.
Marguerite sighed. The picture was false; the bold assassin had not been preposterously pregnant. She felt a sickening twist in her stomach, reminding her of the truth. Her best hope of escape, she decided, was to wait until the box was left unattended; then she could free the hasp with her dagger and climb out unseen. Such an opportunity seemed highly improbable, but she would not have gotten even this far had she let herself worry about likelihoods.
A sudden pain disrupted her thoughts. Marguerite felt as if a crushing weight had suddenly descended upon her abdomen, She bit her tongue to keep from screaming, afraid that Jacqueline's ears might be sharp enough to hear.
The carriage crossed over the arched bridge; Marguerite could hear the change in timbre as the wheels left the soft dirt and began grinding against the gravel-flecked stone. She closed her eyes and envisioned the wheels, making turn after turn, and focused on their image until the pain had subsided.
A horrible thought sprang to mind, and she struggled to deny it. What if the baby were coming after all, coming now, while she rode in a coffin lashed to Jacqueline's carnage? Marguerite thought briefly about calling out to attract her conveyor's attention. But a less suitable midwife could not be found, even if one searched every fiery corner of the infinite Abyss; Jacqueline might help with the delivery, but afterward, she would certainly return both mother and child to Lord Donskoy-perhaps in exchange for the ledger she wanted so badly.
Marguerite had witnessed several births in Darkon, and she struggled to recall the particulars. The first pains could be false, she knew. Sometimes vexing spasms came and went weeks before the birth. Perhaps that was happening to her now.
The fetid air of the marsh began to fill the coffin. Again, the broad band of muscle began to tighten around Marguerite's belly, filling her abdomen with the anguish of labor. She feit as though some giant had taken her in hand and was trying to squeeze the entrails from her body. The agony was worse than before; to hide her screams, she pulled the gag from the blonde woman's mouth and stuffed it into her own.
The unseen band continued to tighten. Marguerite felt the dagger slip from her hand, disappearing somewhere in the dark.
Then at last, the band crushing her belly began to loosen. As the spasm subsided, she felt something warm and damp spreading beneath her. She reached down, hoping she had merely lost control, but fearing she had begun to bleed. Neither had occurred. Her water had broken. The pains were not false after ail; the baby was on its way.
"Don't panic," she breathed aloud. Marguerite struggled to remember the births her mother had once described, and how long those labors had lasted. She might yet have a couple of hours before her own baby came, perhaps even as long as a day. And if she were lucky, they might still reach Barovia in time.
The carriage rolled on.
At length, another wave came. Marguerite felt the child slipping lower inside her belly, and then spasms spread to her back and her legs, more like a seizure than a contraction. Something is wrong, she thought. Something is …
A scream rose up through her throat and halted behind her gag, momentarily, before gathering enough force to send the rag shooting from her mouth. An ear-splitting screech spilled from M
arguerite's lips, as loud as a shrieking banshee. Her body began to writhe and twitch of its own accord. She thought of her lost dagger and hoped she would not cut herself, but she was powerless to stop the thrashing.
The carriage jolted to a halt.
Marguerite tried to clamp her jaw shut, to stifle her scream, but the pain was too great. She managed only to choke back the sound, hardly enough to keep from being heard.
She fumbled for her dagger, knowing the effort was fruitless. Even if she could recover the blade, she would be unable to wield it. A paroxysm had seized her entire body.
A clatter echoed through the coffin as someone fumbled at the latch, then the ltd of the crate flew open. Daylight assaulted Marguerite's eyes. She could see the shape of a woman's head silhouetted against the brightness, but nothing more.
A shriek of surprise sounded overhead. It became a crow of delight, and Marguerite's vision cleared enough to recognize Jacqueline Montarri peering down at her. The face had changed somewhat, but her identity was unmistakable.
"Two for the price of one!" cried the woman, laughing hysterically. "Two for the road!"
Marguerite tried to speak, to ask for help, but she could only manage a strangled croak. Her limbs continued to twitch uncontrollably. Her stomach leaped and jumped, as if the child within were trying to punch its way out.
Jacqueline studied Marguerite with a puzzled expression. "Stop thatl Stop it once!" she commanded. "This. this demented farce will not save you. I am not so easily fooled."
Marguerite felt her tongue slip between her teeth, then a sharp pain. Her mouth filled with the taste of copper-her blood. She had bitten her tongue. A warm stream spilled from her mouth and began to run down the side of her chin.
Jacqueline's eyes widened in shock. "What is this?" she exclaimed. "This isn't right. This Is-" She stepped away from the box. "Well, I'll not have this on my shoulders!"
She slammed down the lid and rattled the pin into the hasp. A moment later, the carriage began to turn.
By the gods, no, Marguerite thought. Her body was shuddering less violently now, but she still felt weak- terribly weak, as feeble as an invalid. Please, no, she pleaded silently.
Like a cold black shadow, despair slipped into the box and covered her. They were heading back to the keep, back to Lord Donskoy, who would go mad when he discovered what she had attempted. Perhaps he already knew. Marguerite's hand scrabbled feebly against the wood overhead, pushing at the lid. She searched again for the missing dagger, but it had slipped away and lay lost somewhere in the cramped darkness. She heard her own voice echoing inside the box, moaning more in fear than pain. They were heading back to Lord Donskoy's keep. And she was too weak to do anything about it.
The landmarks passed in her mind slowly like the scenes from a nightmare-the marsh, the trickling stream, the arched stone bridge. Every few minutes the crushing pain returned, like a great fist squeezing her swollen belly, each time worse than the last. She trembled and screamed and convulsed, battering against the coffin walls until her limbs ached with bruising. At length, she began to experience a new sort of agony: something inside, tugging at her entrails like a tiny claw, dragging at her muscles until the small of her back burned with anguish, pulling and pulling until it felt as if her sinews would rip free of their roots.
Finally, the carriage wheels began to rumble more slowly, announcing their arrival at the keep. In moments, the coach drew to a halt, it rocked once, then Jacqueline's muffled voice sounded just outside the coffin.
"Never mind the horses, Ljubo Fetch your master. Tell him to come at once!"
A soft rasp sounded near the foot of the crate-a rope being loosened. Marguerite's pulse pounded in her ears, filling them with a roar so loud that everything she heard seemed to come from a distance. Her body was in constant agony now, a burning weariness punctuated every few minutes by the cramping aches of labor. She pushed at the lid one more time, making a final, feeble attempt to escape the casket. Then she let her hands drop back over her face, too weak to continue.
Marguerite heard Jacqueline undoing the rope at the head of the coffin, then the crunch of boots on gravel.
"Jacqueline?" It was Donskoy. Marguerite's husband. "What are you-"
"Milos," Jacqueline interrupted. The pin clattered from the hasp. "Have you tost something, perhaps?"
The lid opened.
Marguerite saw Ljubo's face leaning over her, eyeing her quizzically. Then a black glove grabbed him by the shoulder, jerking him aside, and Donskoy's face appeared where the stagehand's had been before.
"What is this?" he gasped.
Marguerite was too weak, too frightened, in too much pain to answer.
Donskoy's skin darkened to the color of a Kartakan beet, then he seized Marguerite's hair and lifted her head.
"Did you think you would run off with my son? Better not to think at all, you little wretch! This will be the last time you disobey me." He began to pull Marguerite out of the coffin. "Get out of there-and quit shaking like an imbecile."
Jacqueline laid a hand on his arm. "Milos-"
Donskoy shook her off. "What?!"
Jacqueline flinched and stepped back, raising both hands in mock surrender. "Far be it from me to come between a man and his wife, but you may wish to take care," she said. "I have never seen a woman shake like that. Something is not going quite right."
"Going?" Donskoy asked. "What do you mean?"
"Just look at her," Jacqueline said evenly. "What do you see? She is not shaking from fright alone. Open your eyes, Milos. Can't you see through your own anger? Her water has broken and her labor has begun."
The color drained from Donskoy's face as rapidly as it had appeared. He released Marguerite's hair, leaving her head to drop limply back into the coffin, and then he leaned in close. He ran his gloved hand over her heaving stomach. Marguerite recoiled at his touch, wishing that she had her dagger in hand, wishing she had the strength to plunge it into her husband's throat. But she did not. She could do nothing but lie beneath his rummaging fingers.
"Is this true?" Donskoy demanded. His breath was heavy with the acrid smell of hookah smoke. "Is the baby coming already?"
Marguerite nodded weakly.
Donskoy turned and grabbed Ljubo by the neck of his tunic, then pushed the plump man toward the keep. "Get Zosia," he growled, "and Ekhart as well. Get them now." He turned back to the coffin and peered over the edge at Marguerite, his sunken eyes burning with anger-no, it was more than anger. Hatred. "So, you chose to depart in a coffin. Well, if the child is harmed because of your stupidity, you'll know this box again soon enough. Soon enough!"
Marguerite struggled to pull herself up out of the crate, but fell back.
"Lie still," Donskoy hissed. "Wait till the old woman comes."
It was only a moment before Zosia's black-kerchiefed head peered in at Marguerite. Beside her stood Yelena, pale and trembling, her slender fingers pressed to her mouth in horror. The wrinkles in Zosia's brow deepened and her mouth bent downward.
"How long have you been feeling the pains?" she asked.
"I don't know," said Marguerite weakly. "A few hours. Maybe more. Please help me, Zosia. Help the baby."
Zosia's dark eyes narrowed. "Take her upstairs," she commanded.
Ljubo and Ekhart placed the crate on the ground, then reached inside and lifted Marguerite. Their rough handling touched off another convulsion, but so exhausted was Marguerite's body that they had little trouble restraining it. They carried her up the long flight of steps and into the keep. Ljubo looked down at Marguerite, grinning reassuringly even as her back arched up with the unnatural paroxysm and a hoarse scream rose once again from her raw throat. The pain swallowed her, and Marguerite fell into a strange, dreamy state. She was like a boat on a wavering sea of air, floating round and round up the wide circular stairs. The figures and faces around her seemed distant, muffled. Hands carried her, but they did not really touch her.
Ljubo and Ekhart bore Marguerit
e to her chamber and laid her on a clean sheet that Yelena had hastily spread upon the mattress. Zosia gently rolled Marguerite onto her side, till she lay facing the edge of the bed.
"Bring me rags and a tub of hot water," she boomed at Ljubo. And to Yelena, she said, in a lower intonation, "and bring my black bag from below."
Donskoy loomed behind the old woman. "She is quiet now. Is she dead, dead with her eyes open?"
"Of course not," said Zosia. "See how her chest yet rises and falls."
"And what of my son? Will he live?"
"I have not foreseen his death-but then, I have not seen this either. Who can say, Lord Donskoy?" Her tone was almost taunting. "Not this old woman. Not your tamed Vistana."
"My son must survive," said Donskoy breathlessly. "Do what you must to ensure it."
"Of course," answered Zosia. "And now you must go."
"No." The reply was short, decisive.
"Birthing and midwifery are the province of women. Yelena will go to you when the child is born. You wiil only add to Marguerite's distress."
"I am staying/ Donskoy said firmly. "Marguerite's distress is nothing to me. And you will see to it that the baby is not affected."
Zosia shrugged. "As you wish," she said huskily. "But please, sit by the fire if you would.!t may be hours yet. Marguerite may cry out, but you needn't worry. Screams alone are not bad portent."
Donskoy grunted, then settled in by the fire. "Ljubo!"
The fat man poked his head through the door-Marguerite did not even remember him and Ekhart leaving-and asked, "Yes, milord?"
"My white pipe, and quickly!" Donskoy ordered.
Zosia pulled off Marguerite's shift and adjusted her position.
Jacqueline, who had been hovering the whole time near the fireplace, made a sour face, then headed for the door. "If you will excuse me, Milos," she said, "I will take my leave. I have always considered motherhood a messy business-best to be avoided whenever possible."
To sleep with Evil (ravenloft) Page 26