Impossible Odds

by Dave Duncan

  “If I do I will raise a statue to him.”

  Then Trudy called down an all-clear, and the Duchess resumed the climb. At the cost of some more skin, Ringwood wriggled past the tight place and followed.

  A moment later a cry of triumph came echoing down. “Moss!” And then, “I’m at the top!”

  Soon he emerged beside the women in a rockbound hollow. Cold, wonderful rain drizzled from the blackness overhead and pattered on leaves of shrubs and spindly trees that had sprouted amid the tumbled and mossy masonry. The sky remained as black, but a very faint glow from somewhere illuminated the enclosing curtain wall of the keep, an empty drum pocked with blind black windows.

  “There’s a light up there!” True pointed. Why was she whispering all of a sudden?

  It was firelight, not daylight, a star twinkling through the foliage.

  “Should we shout?” Ringwood asked.

  “No, love! Let’s have a better look first.” True led the way up a long, canted slab, still using the Count’s sword as a staff, for the mossy surface was slippery. Shadowmen might not be the only peril around, but the lanterns would give them away soon enough. At the top they had a better view, but the source of the firelight was still hidden by trees.

  Ringwood pointed to the left. “Can you see what I see?” The others could not, but Blades’ night vision shamed cats. “That’s a staircase!”

  They had more rock climbing to do to reach it, but now they were under the sky and not squirming like worms in a sandpile. The staircase clung to the curved curtain wall of the keep; once there had been a wall on the inner side of the staircase also, but little of that still stood. The narrow steps were well worn, surprisingly clear of rubble, certainly easier going than the jumble of precariously balanced masonry the fugitives had just left. This might be the answer. Ringwood could hold a stairway against a whole army of shadowmen if they had to come at him one at a time.

  “Onward and upward?” he asked, instinctively whispering.

  “Certainly,” Johanna said. “Freezing to death is no improvement.”

  “True?” Ringwood asked. “What’s wrong? Can you still sense the shadowmen?”

  “Yes.” She turned to stare up at the fire. “And something else up there, too. Don’t know what.”

  Unidentified conjuration meant Vamky.

  “You lead,” he said. “You next, Your Grace.”

  The ancient treads were worn and cracked—half fallen away in places—but someone had cleared the debris off them. That unknown obsessive housekeeper must have lived long before his time, Ringwood decided, for many treads had since collected enough leaf mold to sprout grass.

  After a short climb they topped the trees and paused to study their first real view of the nightmare terrain they had just left. The center of the stronghold had collapsed into a jumble of shattered stone, now inhabited by vegetation. The great curtain wall itself was almost intact, with remnants of the interior structure still clinging to it like shattered honey-comb—fragments of floors, walls, even rooms. The fire burned in one of those dollhouse half-rooms, up in what had been the uppermost story. Its glow threw a very faint illumination over the inside of the keep, and now Ringwood could almost persuade himself that there was a trace of sky showing above the jagged upper edge of the wall. It was not yet bright enough to dissolve shadowmen, though. The only safe place to be was close to that fire.

  The Duchess’s lantern flickered and went out. She gasped in dismay.

  “I’ll carry it,” Ringwood said, thinking it might make a missile. “Onward?”

  “Follow me!” True said unnecessarily, and resumed the climb.

  The footing was tricky, and soon there was a very long drop on the right-hand side. Once Ringwood heard a pebble roll behind him and spun around so fast he almost fell off. He could see nothing down there.

  “Pigs’ blood!” Trudy said, and stopped.

  Lacking any sort of railing, the steps were strictly one person wide. The Duchess peered around her, and Ringwood struggled to see past both of them.

  They had come to the end. The stairs stopped, cut off cleanly with its top step level with a long-lost timber floor, for the curtain wall beyond it showed a horizontal line of holes that had once supported beams.

  Eight or ten paces away—but as utterly out of reach as the moon—a squarish ruined tower remained adhered to the curtain wall, a column of chimneys that had stood when all else rotted away. Fragments of floors and walls still stuck to it, creating the illusion of small rooms. The uppermost of those held a great stone hearth, facing the watchers at the top of the broken staircase and level with them.

  Beside the cheerful blaze crackling there, two men sat on stools. They seemed comfortable—warm, no doubt, and protected from the drizzle by a canted overhanging fragment of slate roof. One of them wore a white robe emblazoned with the blue V of Vamky, his face hidden by his hood. The other, resplendent in fur and brocade and cloth of gold, was Grand Duke Rubin of Krupina.

  • 6 •

  Seniors at Ironhall often fenced without padding or masks. While practice weapons did have dulled edges, they were capable of inflicting injury, and every week or so someone would be rushed to the octogram for a healing. The risks could be justified because a dangerous profession required rigorous training, and the prospect of sudden pain was a strong incentive to develop a strong defense. But even that tough apprenticeship had not prepared Bellman for a real fight against real foes trying to mutilate him with real weapons. He had no binding to inspire him, either.

  He was amazed at the reaction that followed. He shivered so violently he had to lean against the table to stay upright, his breath rasping in his throat, and dark flames swirling behind his eyes. He had been driven very close to his limits. It was over! And it had been a worthy battle for a man with half an eye missing. Even a real Blade would not have been ashamed of that one, and he would hold his head higher because of it. Better than carrying it under his arm.

  “A remarkable display of swordsmanship, young man,” said the person in the cell. “I have never seen a finer.”

  Bellman nodded thanks. He could detect real authority in that calm remark, as if the speaker knew exactly what the battle had cost him.

  He took control of his breathing. “You know, Your Royal Highness, I do not recall having a twin. I believe one of us must be a fake.”

  “You think you are acting in character?”

  “I wish I’d had a better seat for the show,” Radu said, reminding them of his predicament.

  Bellman wiped the shockingly red blood off his sword with the hem of his gown, which was already bloody, and knelt to cut the thongs holding Radu to the gate. “You ought to stay away from dungeons, my good man. They are bad for your health.”

  “I’ll try and remember that.” The knight swayed when Bellman helped him stand. His face was ashen with pain, and when he clasped his rescuer’s hand with both of his, they were icy cold. “My apologies if I belittled you, friend. You made a legend here tonight.”

  Bellman set the bench on its legs again. “Sit. We’ll get you to an octogram as soon as we have tidied up a few other matters.”

  He went to face his mirror image inside the bars. They studied each other for a moment, then Bellman removed his locket and looped it around his belt for safe keeping.

  “I don’t know you,” the prisoner said. “You are not of the Brotherhood.”

  “No, I’m just a locksmith’s apprentice. Radu told me you had some lock problems hereabouts.” Foolish humor could warn of hysteria. “Who has the keys?”

  “Samuil,” the Duke said. “Most of them.”

  Bellman removed a bundle of keys from the corpse’s sword belt and returned to the cell door. “Jack Bellman is my name, my lord.” He chose a key and held it up thoughtfully. Fatigue was washing over him in waves, yet he must stay alert for the toughest negotiation of his life.

  “He’s one of the King of Chivial’s Blades,” Radu said.

  �
�Ah! Then their reputation is not overblown after all.”

  “Don’t judge them by me, my lord. I failed the course.” Bellman tried the key in the lock. He knew it wouldn’t fit.

  “So she made it as far as Chivial, did she?”

  “There and back again, my lord.” Another wrong key? “Tsk! It was she who sent me, so you know who to thank for your deliverance. Where did you say her son was?”

  Long pause. Bellman tried and discarded three more keys. “Mm?”

  “He is safe.”

  “You may trust him,” Radu said, and added uncertainly, “Your Highness?”

  Bellman frowned at the key ring. “I am sorry to take so long, my lord. I seem to be having trouble finding the right key.” Was it wise to provoke a tiger just before releasing it?

  “The boy is in the care of the Dowager Countess of Bad Nargstein.”

  Click!

  “There it is!” Bellman said cheerfully, opening the door. “Now let’s see about that collar.” He should perhaps have asked for an oath on the information, but instinct told him that trust would work better with this man. Assuming he was who logic said he must be.

  “Samuil did not have the key for that,” the prisoner said.

  “Then I shall have to pick the lock. If you would be so kind as to sit on the bed, my lord. Excuse my familiarity, but it will be easier if I sit beside you. I’ll be as fast as I can.” He spread the battered remains of the wallet beside him.

  “I am grateful to the Duchess for sending you, if indeed she did, but my debt is still to you. What reward may I offer?”

  “I am sure I will think of something soon, my lord,” Bellman muttered, concentrating more on finding his way around inside the lock. He feared the Brikov tools were too coarse for it.

  “Why do you call him that?” Radu asked. “You do not believe he is the Duke?”

  “Oh, no,” Bellman said. “Never. He recognized you when you first saw him in here, or so you told us. Duke Rubin has a poor memory for names, his wife said, and he would not address you as ‘Brother,’ would he? Surely he would call you ‘Knight-brother’ or ‘Brother Radu’? Ah! There.” Click! It was an absurdly simple lock.

  The brass collar swung open and he lifted it from the prisoner’s throat. The face above it blurred and transformed. Radu gasped.

  Happily Bellman said, “Lord Volpe, I presume?”

  The solid, bony face was just as Johanna had described, strong and monumental, except that the scalp and heavy jaw bore several weeks’ graying stubble. Prison had not lessened the ferocity of the extraordinary, perpetually staring eyes.

  “You really guessed who I was just from that?”

  “That and some even wilder guessing, my lord. The divisions in your Order had to go right to the top, so there were not many people you could be. Radu told us you were chained by a collar but you could still reach the door of your cell. That is an inefficient way to secure a prisoner, a waste of chain, so I suspected the collar might be there for some other reason. The conjuration to make a necklace like the one I was wearing must be difficult and very secret, but it might be possible to enchant two of them at the same time. I wasn’t quite certain, because I could see no reason why the conspirators should have chosen to make you look like the Duke instead of some anonymous peasant. Why did they?”

  “It is not so crazy as it seems,” the Provost said, rubbing his neck as if he was glad to have it back, “if you know the Brotherhood. Granted, our rule is based on absolute obedience. There is no republic. The brethren never vote. But the Abbot’s powers stop short of throwing the Provost in jail without a trial. If Radu had seen my face in that dungeon he would have rushed off to tell his commanding officer or his friends. The news would have been all through Vamky in no time.”

  Volpe rose and stretched. He was a big man, and his dirty robe no longer suggested it was concealing flab. “As for why the Duke’s face. Well, several of the men involved, like that Achim brute, believed I was who I seemed to be, so they thought they were committing treason. They obeyed, but they were very careful, and they did not go around blabbing about it! Besides, Minhea had the conjurement to hand, the illicit copy of the one he had made for the Duke. It would have taken time to make another. I want to know how you did this. How did Radu even get you in? Come along.”

  Bellman followed him out of the cell. “We learned a valid password by very foul means. No matter how we got in. The question that matters now, my lord, is whether you can get us safely out. Even better, can you regain control of your troops in time to block the marriage?”

  “Has Abbot Minhea gone to the wedding?” The Provost looked from Radu to Bellman and back, but both shook their heads.

  “Sir. We do not know.”

  Volpe examined Samuil’s sword and chose Gerlach’s instead. “Then let us find out! And yes, we must stop that wedding at all costs.” He clasped Bellman’s hand in a rock-crushing grip. Their eyes were level. “I thank you, Herr Bellman. I owe you my life. But saving my life was not your motive.”

  Bellman was having trouble focusing, let alone thinking. His tongue weighed so much that even talking was an effort. “I have friends to avenge. And you have a worse loss than that. Can you call the killer to account now?”

  “I must,” Volpe said. “I should have done it years ago.”

  Johanna reeled back in amazement. Ringwood caught her to steady her. The lantern he had been carrying shattered on the rocks far below.

  Hearing the noise, Rubin turned to peer across the gap. “Johanna, my sweet! You made it at last. That is you, isn’t it? That really is her, isn’t it, Kuri?”

  And that really was her husband. What a fool she had been!

  The hooded knight-brother glanced down at something he held on his lap and nodded. He had his back to the fire, so his face was invisible inside his hood.

  “Kuri’s been tracking you, you see, my dear. When we discovered you weren’t in the house, Kuri located your baggage, all full of things with memories of you. He has a cunning little contrivance to track you from that. When we saw you were going along the Luitgard tunnel, we decided to come on ahead and make sure you arrived safely. You lost János, I see. No great loss there. And one of your boy swordsmen? Ditto, I’m sure.”

  She found her voice. “Are you you?” That bizarre perch in this dangerously haunted ruin seemed such an infinitely unlikely location for the husband she remembered. “The real Rubin? Not another imposter?”

  He laughed erratically. She had rarely seen him drunk, but perhaps he was merely very tired. It was almost dawn, after all, with traces of brightness in the sky above the jagged coronet of the keep. Or maybe she was the one who was crazy. Certainly she was ready to drop with fatigue.

  “Of course I’m me, my sweeting! Who else did you ever think I was? You, maybe? Kuri tells me you’ve been playing at being me all summer, running around Eurania. I hope you didn’t damage my reputation too much, my dear, mm? Did you have fun? Was she having fun, Kuri?”

  “Great fun, Your Highness,” the other man said.

  “Oh, that’s good.” The Grand Duke sighed. “Because the fun is over now, dearest. This is Cantor Kuritsyn, by the way. He will be proclaimed Provost of the Brotherhood during the enthronement assembly this evening. My nephew met with a serious accident. I am grieved you must miss all the festivities, sweeting! You would have enjoyed them so much.”

  “But you are going to rescue us, aren’t you?” Johanna said. “Get us out of here? That was why you came?”

  Her husband sighed. “No, my sweeting, I’m afraid not. Quite the reverse, in fact. My wedding is just too important to me. You simply cannot imagine how I’ve suffered all these months while you were gadding about the continent having fun. The waiting! The burning desire! It’s very unhealthy for a nation when its head of state cannot concentrate on his work properly. I pined until half my wardrobe doesn’t fit me anymore. But that’s all over now. Tonight she will be mine. I’ve set aside an hour between the enthron
ement and the state banquet for the deflowering.”

  “He’s mad,” Trudy muttered. “Raving, foaming, gibbering crazy.”

  Johanna ignored her. “So what are you going to do with me?”

  “Me? Nothing, my love. Didn’t János explain about the keep? Maybe he didn’t know! What do you think, Kuri? Did János know?”

  The hooded man shook his head and said something whose only audible word was “Luitgard.”

  “Yes, he must have,” the Duke agreed. “It was virtually suicide. You see, my dear, the keep at Donehof belongs to me. For centuries it has been a convenient solution for embarrassing problems, a private midden where the Grand Dukes can dump their refuse. I’ve never had need of it before, and my father not often, I think. My grandfather was a rogue, though. Anyone who peeved him at all was shipped out here to the Keep. The schattenherren did the rest. Very convenient, very economical, never any awkward bodies to explain. They don’t even need to be fed.”

  She had been wrong all along. That was Rubin, not Volpe. Volpe would never speak in that mincing, gloating fashion. He wouldn’t sully his honor by pretending to be Rubin at all. She should have seen that half a year ago. It had been Rubin all the time and she had been a blind fool, refusing to believe the unbearable obvious.

  “You’re just going to leave me here to die?”

  “I have no choice, my dear. I can’t have you making a scene at the wedding, embarrassing everybody. You have been very lucky, you know. Kuri here is the most successful assassin since Silvercloak and you escaped him not just once but three times!”

  Trudy was peering at her…or past her. “Don’t look around, Your Grace,” she said softly. “Just keep the madman talking until Ringwood gets there.”

  Only now Johanna realized that her one surviving Blade was no longer at her back. Gets there? Gets where? Past the shadowmen? The keep was still dark. He would never make it.

  “Keep him talking!” Trudy repeated in an urgent whisper.

  “That wasn’t luck!” Johanna shouted. “If that man’s your hired killer, then he isn’t capable of stomping earthworms.”