“I would not want to impose on His Grace—”
“Nonsense. His lands are very large, and we so rarely have guests from so far out of the country.”
“Perhaps I should have brought Caroline,” Dr. Maddox said.
“I’m sure she would be delighted to be ushered into the presence of Prince Brian of Sibiu.”
Dr. Maddox grinned. “I am amused at the concept myself. At least I will always have it that I am taller than him.” He turned to Trommler. “He doesn’t have a crown, does he?”
“He does, Doktor Maddox. It is quite tall—and bejeweled. A very old piece.”
“I wonder if his head has grown too big for it by now,” Darcy mumbled, and Dr. Maddox had to laugh.
Still they traveled on, to the point where even a well-pillowed carriage ride could not prevent some sores and aches, and they were glad to be informed that they were passing through the lands of Count Vladimir’s brother-in-law, Olaf . Aside from a castle in the distance, almost all of the structures were wooden and mud huts, and the roads could barely be considered that, but the mountains were the highest Darcy had ever seen in his life.
They came at last to a castle that showed its history, built with old fortifications to withstand a siege and high towers to overlook the land. The stone was gray and the roofs, even the spire roofs, covered in red tiles, were worn from what little sun there was.
“He couldn’t have married an English country girl,” Darcy grumbled. “Or at worst, a Highlander.”
“No, Brian never does things halfway,” Dr. Maddox said as they were helped out of the carriage—and after two weeks traveling, they really did need help. Despite the summer warmth there was a harsh wind coming down from the mountains, and they were freezing by the end of the walk from the carriage to the front doors, at which point Trommler went in to a side door, and the main ones opened, and a bearded man with a fur-tipped overcoat and a gold chain around his neck stepped out, flanked by Trommler and a guard.
“Ridica-i!”
Darcy and Dr. Maddox looked at each other. “Hello, we’ve—”
“Cine sunt ?” he said to Trommler. (Who are these men?)
“Un anume Dr. Maddox varul lui, Mr. Darcy, Conte Vladimir.”
The man—obviously a baron or a count or some kind of royalty—grabbed Dr. Maddox in some kind of cross between a warm hug and a grab for assessment, and said, “Patetic.” He backed away and said clearly in French, “Ah bon, vous êtes des relations de Brian?” (So you are Brian’s relatives?)
“Oui,” Dr. Maddox said. Darcy understood more French than he spoke and could at least listen with some understanding.
The Count huffed, “Nous verrons.” (We shall see.) He barked some orders to his guards, which were probably in Romanian, and stomped off with some ceremony. It was Trommler who snapped for the guards to give them cloaks and lead the Englishmen inside, into the cold entranceway.
“Excuse His Grace,” Trommler said. “He’s used to a bit more bowing.”
“We meant no offense,” Dr. Maddox said.
“No matter. As it turns out, we’re early; Her Highness Princess Nadezhda and your brother are on a hunting trip. They will be back tomorrow or the next day, depending on the weather. But you are in time for a feast anyway. Some of the count’s friends are coming tonight. Come.”
Trommler led them straight to their rooms, which were tastefully appointed with beautiful wooden furniture and carvings, but still quite drafty. Then he disappeared. There were servants and guards everywhere, but none of them spoke English or French, just Romanian and maybe a smattering of other languages. Dr. Maddox found one who spoke German, but he didn’t have much to say, except to point to the things they asked for, like fresh water to use for washing. They were offered indoor coats, as their trunks had not yet been sent up to their rooms and unpacked, and told to rest, as dinners with the count tended to be long. Despite all the questions they had, neither man could put up much argument against this idea.
When they were woken, it was dark outside, and the lamps inside the castle were lit, still making it very dark and gloomy. They barely had time to put their rather elaborate and showy cloaks on over their traveling clothes before being escorted to a long dining table. Count Vladimir sat at the end, with the oddest collection of guests, nearly all male, Darcy had ever seen. The footman with a gigantic and surely ornamental spear announced them in Romanian, then Count Vladimir made some additional comment to his guests, who talked amongst themselves as the Englishmen were seated. There was not a smattering of English among them. At the head, on both sides of the count, were a few men dressed in European fashions who spoke amongst themselves casually. They had no beards, unlike almost everyone else at the table, but only goatees, and were likely the local Hungarian nobility. Darcy and Dr. Maddox were placed next to each other at the end of the table. Beside Darcy was who looked like an Oriental, but he had a graying beard, which Orientals were not known to have, and very, very dark skin. His clothing was not silk but wool, one layer over the right arm, and the other exposed a lower layer, and he had a cloth cap on despite being at the table. Fortunately he had most of his teeth, or the portrait would have been even more disconcerting.
All of the courses were out on the table for them to pick at except the soup, and two silver bowls were unceremoniously dumped in front of the Englishmen, and thick soup poured into them, along with chunks of bone. At least the meat on some of the plates was recognizable as game. Many guests had their own cups or bowls and ate exclusively from those; the server seemed rather put-out having to supply them for the two additional guests.
Darcy looked down at the white soup and the two hoofs floating in it. “I suppose I ought not to inquire what this is.”
“I think you can pass on drinking it,” Dr. Maddox said. The crowd at the other end was very noisy, so even if they were speaking in a language the others could understand, they would not be heard anyway. “The count will hardly notice.” He managed to hide his bowl between goblets and reached with his fork for something green and in a roll. “I believe this is cabbage. Probably with meat in it, I suppose.”
Darcy went for the more obvious choice, the duck that was still recognizable as a duck, though it was surrounded by fried things Darcy couldn’t name. He was famished, so not eating was out of the question, even if the spices didn’t agree with him. Fortunately the meat itself was actually rather plain, if made sour by the cream it was covered in. As Dr. Maddox guessed, the servants were not at all concerned that the soup went untouched. Their main tasks seemed to be constantly refilling the goblets of wine and dispensing a clear liquor. Everyone else was dipping in, and the laughter could at times be deafening. They seemed to be at the quiet end of the table. Darcy looked to his right, and the Oriental was not eating at all. He had a shaker in his hand, with a wooden handle and metal top, and a small metal ball attached by string, and when he swung it, the ball made a humming noise as it circled around. He seemed to be mumbling to himself, his eyes closed.
“He’s a fortune teller,” said the man across from them in French. When the plate with a pile of stewed cabbage rolls and sweet cakes was moved aside, they could see a very pale, definitely European man with normal clothing under his cloak sitting across from them. He even had a fine pair of glasses. His gray beard was neatly trimmed, but the hair in the back of his head was a little long. “From Xinjiang, northeast of the Manchus’ China. You can try to talk to him, but he doesn’t speak any language of the white men. He won’t lower himself to it.”
“He’s not… fortune telling now?”
“Oh, no,” the Frenchman chuckled, though maybe he wasn’t French. He was just speaking French very well. “He’s just saying prayers. I hope it doesn’t bother you.”
Dr. Maddox said with a wary little smile, “Does His Grace normally employ fortune tellers?”
“He’s a very superstitious man, th
ough you might have guessed that already.” He chuckled. “Yengi always gets all the attention.”
“And you?”
“Oh, forgive me.” He made a gesture as if he was tipping his hat to them, even though he had no hat. “Artemis Izmaylov. I translate for my friend here. So what are two Englishmen doing in Transylvania?”
“My name is Dr. Daniel Maddox, and this is Mr. Darcy,” Dr. Maddox said, a little relieved to be talking to someone at last. “My brother is Brian Maddox, the count’s son-in-law. I was invited to see him, and my friend Mr. Darcy is traveling with me.”
Yengi the fortune-teller stopped his chant and said something, and Artemis said, “Yes, we met him briefly, the last time we were here, though we did not have a chance to speak. He was busy and so were we. Nice fellow. Refused to have his fortune read, but I can’t blame him, to be perfectly honest. Too much English in him.” His smile revealed a full set of slightly crooked, almost sharp teeth. “Enjoy the count’s hospitality, for what it’s worth. He can be a very interesting man.”
***
There was little time for further discussion with the fortune-telling duo, as the various groups dispersed in different directions, and Darcy and Dr. Maddox had to turn down glass after glass, though it was impossible not to take a sip at every toast. When the bell chimed for two in the morning, they were both warm from the wine, and Trommler reappeared from nowhere. “The count demands an audience with you.”
“I do not see how we can refuse our host,” Dr. Maddox said.
Except for his guards, Count Vladimir was alone in his throne room, a room wholly medieval in nature up to the rusting swords and wooden shields on the wall. His ancestors must have had greater lands and power than he currently enjoyed. “Velcome,” he said in German. “You are here to stay.” It was hard to make out, and Dr. Maddox did a quick translation for Darcy.
“Yes, I am looking forward to seeing my brother,” Dr. Maddox said.
“So are we,” Trommler said in English for both of them, translating as the count spoke. “You see, he is missing.”
“Missing?” It was the first word out of both their mouths.
“Oh yes, though His Grace is hoping that you will provide an… incentive for your brother’s return, Doktor Maddox. He has been quite resistant to the idea since he ran away two years ago.”
Dr. Maddox wished he was less drunk, as he sputtered, “But the letters—”
“All of his letters were read. By me, I might add. The final ones were sent late or not at all. We didn’t wish to alarm you,” Trommler said. “If he’d gone himself, it would be only a matter of honor, and I believe His Grace would have given up by now. But he took the princess, the count’s only child, and this of course is unacceptable.”
Count Vladamir was still speaking in Hungarian or Romanian, and he slammed his fist on the wood, making quite a sound. Trommler remained coolly calm and said, “He was a very good husband to Princess Nadezhda, you see. I will comment here that he was loyal to her and loved her deeply, and their fleeing was, whatever His Grace may believe, a mutual decision. But there was the small matter that he could not get her with child—for no lack of trying on his part.” His grin was downright dangerous. Obviously the count didn’t understand what he was saying, and they didn’t understand what the count was saying, so Trommler really controlled the conversation. “That Nadezhda couldn’t conceive was predicted by the midwife when she became a woman, but His Grace is convinced that a proper husband could overcome that particular difficulty. He gave Brian two years, and when no child was produced, not even a girl, he ordered his execution. A new husband was already chosen.”
The horror was beginning to permeate Dr. Maddox’s wine-soaked brain. “So he fled, to save his life.”
“And being the loyal wife, Princess Nadezhda fled with him. The count assumed he would go west, of course, to England, but that was far too obvious, and Mr. Maddox has a long history of escaping authority. He went to Russia instead, to Saint Petersburg, and from there the trail went cold. I assume you have no knowledge of this, or you would not have come at our invitation. You should know, Doktor Maddox, that your brother spoke of your kind heart. I knew it would mislead you into believing the best, that your brother was safe and happy in Transylvania, and you would come to see him in his new life without any concerns for your safety.” He paused to actually listen to what the count was saying before continuing. “As for the other Englishman, he is just an unfortunate incident but will at least make your indefinite stay a bit more comfortable.”
Darcy was aware enough now to dart for the door, but it was shut, and the guards were ready to grab him. They didn’t harm him, just held him quite effectively. “You can’t keep us locked up here forever!”
“You are mistaken, Herr Darcy, about the extent of His Grace’s hospitality. It is quite vast.” He made a gesture, and the guards dragged them both away.
***
“Doctor—” was all Darcy managed to say before he was pulled off in another direction. The terrible thought that he might never see him again went through him like a cold shiver as he was brought to his feet and made to stumble around in the castle. It wasn’t like the rebuilt castles of Scotland, largely manor houses. This was an ancient place of stone and torches and winding staircases with no windows. “Look, I don’t even speak your language, how can I—” But he was just rewarded with a smack on the back of his head and more Romanian words. They brought him to a room with only two chairs, one off to the side and the other in the center. It was wooden and had metal clamps on it. They freed him from his shackles and locked him into the chair.
They then left him, taking the light with them. They left only the single candle burning down on the wooden table, the only other furniture in the room. As his eyes adjusted to the dark, Darcy took in his surroundings, but there was little to take in. Four empty walls, a wooden door, and a candle. The flickering of it was hypnotic in a way, and his eyes constantly fell to the wick, watching it burn and the wax drip down.
Despite his position, he did not realize he had managed to fall asleep until icy water hit him in the face, thoroughly waking him up. He tried to wipe it from his eyes but found his arms unmovable. His predicament came back to him very quickly.
“Guten Morgen, Herr Darcy.”
“Once again, I must remind you that I don’t speak German,” Darcy said, raising his head to the inquisitor. It was Trommler again.
“Vous parlez Francais?” (Do you speak French?)
“Not much,” he replied, his voice hoarse from thirst. “Please, very little.”
Trommler took a very careful seat on the stool that had been brought for him. “We will have to work in English, then, no?” But it sounded more like “Ve vill haf to vork…” with his thick accent. “Excuse my accent. We should be acquainted properly now. I am Herr Konrad Trommler.”
“Mr. Fitzwilliam Darcy,” Darcy replied out of habit. “Look, I don’t know why I’m here—perhaps you have your intelligence mixed up or something, because I’ve not come to look for Brian Maddox; I’m looking for my brother, who is totally unrelated and not in Transylvania at all—”
“Have you ever heard of Dracula?”
“What?” Darcy said. “No, I have not.”
“His name means son of Dracu—His father was a member of the order of the Dragon. He lived, they say, three centuries ago in Wallachia—right next to us. His real name was Vlad the Impaler. Do you wish to know why he was called that?”
“No.”
Trommler smiled. “I think it would actually be worse to leave it to your imagination. Reconsider, Herr Darcy.”
“I will not.” The circumstances were extreme, but he would not give in to this man’s fright tactics. “I suppose you’re going to try to intimidate me by telling me the count is his descendent.”
“You are familiar with inquisition, Herr Darcy?”
> “No. I am a gentleman.”
“My opinion on English gentlemen is not very good,” said Trommler, “having observed one for over two years.”
“Brian Maddox is no gentleman.”
“Then you are aware of his habits?”
“I know him. I am related to him by marriage, yes. I have spent time with him, yes. But I’ve not seen or heard from him in years.” He could talk, if that was all they were going to do. “If you think either of us knows his whereabouts, or even if he is still alive, then you are mistaken again.”
“So der doktor said,” Trommler told him, “before he passed out.”
Darcy swallowed.
“But enough about Doktor Maddox. Your brother is German?”
“French,” he said, not easily. It was harder and harder to keep up the presentation that he was calm. “Half-brother. He was born in France. Now he lives in Austria.”
“Half? How many bastard children did your father have? Or perhaps your mother was a whore?”
Darcy tried, very hard, to break free of his restraints. They were iron, so it was useless, but it was his body’s natural response. “She was not a whore!”
“Herr Darcy, it was a simple question.”
“Calling one’s mother a whore is not a simple question!” He was being provoked, and he knew it, but he didn’t care.
“Herr Darcy, you had better calm down,” said Trommler in an almost concerned voice. “You are only hurting yourself. See?” He stood up and indicated Darcy’s wrist, which was bleeding where iron met skin.
He did not want to admit that his inquisitor was right, but Darcy did take a moment to close his eyes and breathe. “It was my father who was unfaithful. For your records,” Darcy said. “Are you satisfied?”
“We have a long way to go before we come to that,” Trommler said, taking his seat again. “Now, your brother, why did he come to Austria? To take in the sights?”
Mr. Darcy's Great Escape Page 8