by Steven Brust
Mariska shook her head, frustration beginning to build in her. "I am not making charges, László. I am warning you—"
That was as far as she got. There came a deep, booming rumble that seemed to come from below their feet. It lasted for the space of half a dozen heartbeats, and seemed to be only sound, yet Mariska noticed ripples in the wine in her glass. She found herself gripping the edge of the table for no reason that she could discern.
* * * *
Far below them tiny stresses and gradual weakenings that had been building up for years finally had an effect. A support wedge, compressed and pulled by the weight of sandstone blocks, moved slightly away from the wall against which it stood. A sandstone block, worn away by nothing more than the passing of gentle air currents, shifted. The shift changed a balance that had held precariously for more than ten years, and the entire wedge, one of six supporting that block, ripped and fell. The block of sandstone tried to redistribute its weight onto the remaining five. Two of these were nearly as weak as the first had been; they lasted for no more than the drawing of a breath.
It is unlikely that the three remaining wedges could have held the block, but it doesn't matter. The distribution of weight was now hopelessly wrong, and the block, almost sighing, gave up, cracked, and fell. Floor tiles, supported by wedge and block, caved in and collapsed. Hundreds of pounds of material landed in the cellar, breaking a stairway and scattering more sandstone. Wood and tiling and sandstone lay at the bottom, choking in dust created by their own destruction.
On the other side of the cellar, more sandstone was supported by more wedges. These tried to absorb the additional weight—-and succeeded. They didn't like it, and anyone listening would have heard them complain loudly, but, for the moment, they held.
* * * *
When there was silence once more, Mariska found she had been holding her breath and exhaled. They all looked at each other and around the room.
László broke the silence first. "What was that?" he asked in a whisper. No one answered him.
"I'll go look," said Vilmos, starting to rise.
"I'll go with you," said Miklós.
László said, "No, wait. We will be told soon enough, and I want all of you near me. If we are under attack I don't want to have to send someone looking for you."
"But we need to find out what it is," said Miklós.
"Everyone knows where I am," said László. "Someone will—ah!"
This ejaculation was caused by Viktor's appearance at the doorway. The captain made a brief bow to the King.
"Out with it," snapped László.
"Your Majesty, there has been an accident."
"Accident?"
"A section of the floor, near the main doors, has collapsed."
László squeezed his eyes closed for a moment, then opened them. "Was anyone hurt?"
"No, Your Majesty. That is, no one was hurt seriously. Károly—the door guard—twisted his ankle getting away."
"Very well." He was silent for a moment. To Mariska, it seemed that he was aging before her eyes. "Have it cleaned up. And rig a plank or something so we can get in and out."
"Yes, Your Majesty."
When Viktor had left, László turned to Vilmos. "See about helping them."
Vilmos nodded. He started to rise, then froze, half in and half out of his chair. His eyes grew wide, and it seemed to Mariska that he grew pale. Then, with a speed that astounded her, he was through the doorway.
László said, "What was that about?"
Even as he spoke, it came to her. She glanced at Miklós, and saw that he, too, realized what had happened. She said, "The floor in front of the main door."
Miklós nodded. "The norska."
Mariska and Miklós rose as one and headed for the door.
"Miklós!"
They both turned. "Yes, László?" said the Prince.
"Stay with me. I'll want your advice."
He glanced at Mariska. She read his indecision, then saw him suddenly yield. He turned and nodded to László. Mariska continued up through the Great Hall. Andor was on his feet, looking around almost desperately.
"Mariska, wait a moment," he said.
She shook her head and kept walking. A moment later she heard his footsteps behind her. She ignored him, hurrying to the stairway and down to the main floor. She came near the entrance and saw a ring of guards and servants around it.
She repressed a desire to push them aside. Even now, she thought, I must maintain my role. Especially now. She gently cleared her throat and allowed a servant to see her, look startled, and cry, "Make way!"
By this time Andor had caught up and was at her elbow. A path was cleared for her, and she walked up to the edge of a hole in the floor, perhaps twenty feet by fifteen. She looked to the side, and saw that part of the hallway containing the stairway down to the cellar was gone, too, leaving two wooden beams hanging limply from the ceiling and swaying gently. The air was alive with dust motes, shimmering where the light came through the partially opened door to the courtyard. The stairway to the cellar had apparently collapsed too. The effect of it all made it seem to her like an open wound in the Palace, already festering around the edges with bits of broken floor tile. Yet perhaps the most dreadful part of it was how even and rectangular the hole appeared, despite the jagged edges.
Someone said, "Careful, my lady." She ignored him and looked down, but saw only a pile of broken sandstone. At that point, she heard a cry, and knew that it was Vilmos's voice.
She turned to the guard nearest her. "Help me down," she said.
"Mariska," said Andor, "I'm sure it is nothing but the norska. There is no need—"
She turned to him. "Keep still." He jumped as if stung, and opened his mouth to retort, but no words came out. She looked at the servant she had spoken to. He hadn't moved. She read the consternation on his face and interpreted it.
"It is not necessary," she said, "that you find a dignified manner to help me down. It is not a dignified request. Just do as I say. At once."
Someone muttered something about a rope ladder, and the servant rushed off. He returned a moment later with the ropes bundled under his arm. He and several others held on to one end as the other was lowered into the hole. She gingerly stepped onto this, wincing as her skin struck the edge of the pit. She used one hand to hold onto the rope, the other to keep her gown close around her legs. They slowly lowered her onto the pile of rubble.
The cellar was brighter than usual, due to the light from the torches on the main floor that appeared as a wide sunbeam. She stepped carefully off the rubble and raised her eyes. Vilmos was directly before her, a norska cradled in his arms. He was stroking its fur. The twin lines of tears running down his cheeks told a story for which no words were necessary.
She hesitantly approached him. "Who is it?"
"Bátya," he said softly. His voice choked, and he began crying with great, gasping sobs that tore her heart like a jagged knife. She looked around quickly for the others, and saw that Atya and Anya were still in their cages, staring intently at Vilmos, their noses quivering as if they smelt death and didn't understand what it was. The other cage had clearly been directly under something. One end was smashed, and there were jagged pieces of it sticking both inward and outward. There were no norska in the cage.
She turned back to Vilmos to ask him where the others were, but saw that Húga was at his feet, sometimes standing on her hind legs, her ears working quickly back and forth. A moment more of looking showed Csecsemő. She was lying on her side a few steps from Vilmos, looking around wildly and breathing very quickly. Her flank was covered with blood. She went over to her.
"Leave her alone," said Vilmos, without looking up.
She ignored him and knelt down next to the norska. Setting her fan next to her, she very carefully stroked the fur on the side of Csecsemő's neck, then ran her hand down her side. When she reached her flank, the norska jumped and reached around with her fangs. Mariska barely got her hand
out of the way in time.
Mariska firmly placed one hand around the norska's ears to hold her head in place, then carefully lifted her hindquarters. This didn't seem to bother her. She set her down again. Still holding her ears, she parted the fur above the flank and saw a gash there, with a piece of bone showing through. She started to gag, but closed her eyes before actually doing so. She took three deep breaths, then opened her eyes again. She forced herself to examine Csecsemő completely, despite the norska's jumping in her hands and piteous cries.
She carefully set the norska down and searched the floor until she found a splinter of wood.
"What are you doing?" said Vilmos.
"Lend me your knife."
"Why?"
"Please."
He handed it over, but stepped between her and Csecsemő watching her suspiciously. She cut off a small piece of the rope ladder that still hung from the ceiling, then broke it into several strands. She brought two of the strands and the splinter of wood over to Csecsemő, and knelt down next to her.
"What are you doing?" repeated Vilmos.
"Hold her," she said.
He set Bátya's body down, very carefully and, perhaps, reverently. His hands trembled. Húga came over, sniffed the other norska, and began chittering. Vilmos took Csecsemő's ears with one hand and put the other hand under the norska's stomach. Mariska took hold of the bottom of the injured foot and pulled. Csecsemő chittered in what was plainly an agonized scream as Mariska tried to align the bones. In a moment, the baby norska's screams were drowned out by Vilmos's sobs. In another moment, she was nearly blinded by her own tears.
It seemed to take hours.
When they were done, Vilmos sat in the rubble holding Csecsemő in his arm. With his other arm he held Mariska, who clutched him with both hands, her face buried in his shoulder.
* * * *
Night had fallen by the time Vilmos helped her back out of the cellar, holding Bátya's body in one hand. They didn't speak. Vilmos left the Palace to bury the norska while Mariska remained within. A pair of boards had been stretched across the hole in the floor to the doors of the Palace.
She tried to decide if she needed companionship or solitude. The thought came to her that if she were in company with others, she must hold to her role as future Queen. She started. Hold to her role? She glanced down into the cellar. The idea seemed ludicrous.
She was still standing there when Miklós came in through the doors. His face was covered with sweat. As he walked across the boards, it seemed to Mariska that he was near tears.
"I've seen Vili," he said. "Thank you for helping him. I wish—" He stopped and shook his head.
She squeezed his shoulder. He continued around the corner of the hall toward the room he was sleeping in. Mariska pushed down a compulsion to follow him. He was handling his own grief. Perhaps it was only grief on Vilmos's behalf, perhaps there was more to it, but it wasn't her place to intrude. She leaned against the wall and allowed herself two deep breaths, then began the long walk back up to the Great Hall.
Rezső and Sándor were deep in discussion in one corner, Viktor napped in another. Mariska found a third. She carefully seated herself and nodded to a servant. "Brandy," she said.
When the liquor arrived, she forced herself to sip it, suddenly hating the mannerisms she had adopted over the years. She wished for nothing more than to toss the drink down her throat like Vilmos did, but it was less effort to do as she'd always done.
Rezső and Sándor came and sat next to her.
"Yes?"
Rezső said, "How is Vilmos?"
She studied him. Rezső always struck her as more careful than anything else. He knew a lot more then he ever let on. He was an observer, and, when he acted, it was through others. She said, "He'll live. It was quite a blow to him, of course. I did what I could."
Sándor nodded. "Then he'll be up to helping us tomorrow?"
Mariska stared at him. Had he no idea what this meant to Vilmos? No, he probably didn't. How could he? She turned away and didn't answer.
"Is something wrong, Countess?" asked the wizard.
She wanted to say, "Just go away," but she couldn't. Anything else would have been wrong, so she said nothing. She heard Rezső whisper something to him. The King's advisor said, "Perhaps later, Countess," and they walked away.
Goddess, what is wrong with these people? Andor entered the room from the other side. Mariska stood up quickly, knowing that, above all else, she did not want to speak to him just then.
She left the room quickly by the nearest exit, and only after walking through the doorway did she realize that this way led up to the King's Tower. She stopped, not wanting to go where she wasn't wanted, yet unwilling to expose herself to what Andor might—no, would do to her. After a moment, she continued up the stair. It was only lit with one lamp, and this did little to illuminate the stairway. But she could see that the walls were dirty and, like the rest of the walls in the Palace, cracked in some places and crumbling in others. She shuddered. The stairway was long, the steps high, and the walls were so close together that her shoulders brushed against both sides as she climbed.
The stairs ended in an actual door, like the main entrance, with leather hinges. She knocked softly. The wood of the door felt thick and heavy; the dullness of the knock seemed not to penetrate. She knocked harder, but still had the feeling that the door defeated her efforts to be heard.
At last she lifted the latch and pushed it part way open. She called, "László? It is I, Mariska. Are you there?" She looked through, but couldn't see anything. There was a very faint luminescence coming from just out of sight. She stuck her head through the doorway.
László lay on the floor, naked, spread-eagled. Hanging in the air above him there seemed to be a gently glowing ball. As she looked closer, she thought she could almost see a face in it. She continued staring, and the features became clearer. She knew the stories that were told of the Kings of Fenario, and László spoke of these same stories as if they were everyday occurrences. The face could only be that of the Demon Goddess.
Then something inside of her stirred, and she suddenly knew that she must not look at that face. She tightly shut her eyes and closed the door. She found that she was trembling as she leaned against the wall.
She made her halting, stumbling way back down the stairway, grateful for the close walls which kept her from falling. She stopped just inside the door to the Great Hall and caught her breath. I need a bath, she thought, and almost laughed at herself for it.
She stepped out into the Hall and found Viktor staring at her. His eyes traveled past her to the doorway she had emerged from; then he raised an eyebrow. She turned away. In the center of the room, Andor was speaking to Sándor in hushed tones. The wizard seemed bored; Andor seemed excited. She tried to make it to the doorway that would lead to her rooms, but Viktor caught up to her.
"Countess," he said, "I see that you have been—"
"Have you seen Vilmos?" she cut him off.
"No. He isn't in the King's Tower, however. No one goes there except—"
"Very well. I'll look for him elsewhere."
"That is fine. I wish to know, however—"
"You know what happened to one of his norska, don't you?"
He brushed it off. "Yes, yes. You cannot blame the Palace for that. I still wish—"
"Blame the Palace?" She caught her breath. "What an interesting thought. It hadn't occurred to me to do so. Excuse me."
She turned on her heel and left him. As soon as she was past the doorway, she began walking faster, almost running. She nearly tripped on the stairway. In the hall, she saw Brigitta walking in a direction that could only lead toward Miklós's room. Mariska nodded and would have passed her by, but László's whore stopped and said, "Wait a moment."
Mariska halted, trembling, and said, "Yes?"
"Vilmos is in his room. Perhaps you should speak to him."
The Countess blinked. "Yes," she said at last. "Thank yo
u."
Brigitta nodded and walked by her. Mariska found Vilmos's room and stopped outside of it.
"Vilmos?"
"Yes?" came the voice from the other side of the curtain.
"May I come in?"
"Yes."
She found him lying on his side, staring at the far wall. Vilmos's room was completely bare, save for one dresser and the bed. It seemed more a common laborer's room than that of a Prince of the Blood. He didn't look at her. At first, she thought that his face showed sorrow, but then she realized that he was glaring, as if he were afraid to move lest he flare up into a rage that would destroy everyone around him.
"What is it, Vilmos?"
He sat up suddenly. Usually, when Vilmos would change position, it seemed to be an effort to make his tremendous girth behave the orders of his will. This time, however, his motion was quick and fluid. The difference took Mariska's breath away, as if she were seeing a different person. She found that she was frightened; yet it was a different kind of fear than what she had felt in the King's tower.
Vilmos looked at her, not saying anything. "What is it?" she repeated. He shook his head. He was still glaring, and he was looking at her, but the anger seemed directed elsewhere.
"Has… anyone spoken to you?"
He nodded. "Sándor."
"What did he say?"
"He blamed it on the tree that is growing in Miklós's room."
"What? But that is impossible. It didn't happen anywhere near Miklós's room."
He nodded.
She sat down next to him. "You are angry, but you don't know who or what to be angry at. Is that it?"
He nodded.
She said, "I'm sorry. I know it doesn't help, but I'm sorry. I wish there were something I could do."
He didn't respond. After a moment, she stood and went to the doorway. She paused. "Must you blame someone?"
He nodded.
"I'm sorry," she said.
INTERLUDE
When I was a lad I took service with a peasant who lived in the north part of Bajföld County, near the village of Készpénz. The first thing he told me to do was to find water for his fields. Well, I went walking north. I walked and walked until I came to the biggest lake I'd ever seen. I tasted the water and it tasted like salt, so I knew that would never do.