by Paula Volsky
“Your aims are misguided, your methods contemptible, and I will not assist you.”
“Have you lost all reason? As head of House Stornzof, and in the name of the imperior, I order you to perform your duty.”
“You sacrificed your right to command me weeks ago, Grandlandsman. As for the imperior, if he were here in person, I would answer him as I answer you—I will have no part of this latest criminal scheme.”
“This is madness. It is impossible.” Torvid spoke almost in disbelief. “We have always been at odds. Harsh words have been spoken, the rancor has been mutual. For all of that, you are a Stornzof and I have never seriously questioned your loyalty to Grewzland.”
“It is unimpaired. I remain loyal to Grewzland—the real Grewzland, a nation founded upon principles of honor, built and brought to greatness by a people of much courage, generosity, and decency. That true Grewzland still exists, strong in thousands of hearts and minds, but its outward aspect has been distorted by that monstrous entity we call the Imperium. I would gladly die in the service of my country, but the Imperium is not Grewzland. The Imperium is a disease.”
“So.” Torvid drew smoke deep into his lungs and released it. “I remember I called you a traitor in Lis Folaze. At the time I imagined that I used the term carelessly in anger, but now I see the description was accurate. You disgrace the name of Stornzof, you disgrace the uniform you wear, and I would not accept your assistance now if you pleaded on your knees to serve me. There are other guides to be found. I will succeed without you, and for the sake of our family I will conceal your weakness, but know this—from this day forward I do not regard you as a member of my House. Now stand aside.” He made for the door.
“One moment.” Karsler did not move. “I cannot allow this.”
“You are mad; you belong in an asylum.”
“You will abandon your plan here and now,” Karsler informed him. “You will collect your commandos and leave the Waterwitch.”
“Or?” the other inquired softly.
“I will warn the palace guard, and you will be removed forcibly. In view of your rank you will probably escape arrest, but your ejection will be public and ignominious.”
“You are in earnest? You oppose me? You threaten me?”
“I will not permit you to carry out this abduction.”
“Then I am left with no choice but to defend myself.”
A split second too late, Karsler recognized the deep satisfaction in his uncle’s voice. A pistol appeared in the grandlandsman’s hand, and he fired. Karsler felt something like a great blow to the chest, and he fell without a sound.
Torvid Stornzof put the gun back in his pocket. Dropping his cigarette to the carpet, he ground it carefully under his heel, and walked out of the room.
25
WHEN THE STORNZOF KINSMEN entered the antechamber, Girays shot a quick look up and down the empty corridor, then approached and pressed his ear to the closed door. It did not do much good. He could hear the mutter of voices in there, but they were speaking in rapid Grewzian and they were muffled by the thickness of the heavy door. He could make out a word now and then, nothing more. Both voices were even and well modulated. No shouting, no obvious quarreling. Probably nothing significant going on. His earlier twinge of uneasiness had been groundless.
He would look like a fool or worse if some servant caught him lurking there. Turning from the door, he headed back toward the Long Gallery, but walked no more than ten yards before he heard a sharp pop, like a pistol shot or a firecracker, and some immediate unthinking instinct slid him behind the huge velvet curtains framing the nearest window.
A sliver of space between curtain and wall allowed him a view of the corridor. He saw Torvid Stornzof emerge. The grandlandsman’s face was quite expressionless as he glanced right and left, then strode off alone.
Girays waited a minute or so, but Karsler Stornzof did not appear, and a curious trepidation seized him. His pulse quickened as he slipped from his refuge, retraced his steps, and went into the antechamber.
Karsler Stornzof lay near the door. The front of his grey jacket was soaked with blood, but he was alive, conscious, and struggling to raise himself from the floor.
“Lie still.” Kneeling beside the wounded man, Girays saw that the red stain was spreading swiftly. The bleeding was heavy, but no artery appeared to have been touched. “There’s a Strellian doctor in the Long Gallery right now. I’ll have him back here in seconds. In the meantime, don’t try to move.” As he started to rise, the other’s hand caught his wrist.
“No time.” Stornzof’s face was white and drawn with pain, but his voice was steady. “The grandlandsman is responsible. Stop him.”
“Someone will. Right now it’s more important to fetch you a doctor.”
“You do not understand. My uncle plans a major coup. He has brought his commandos into the palace tonight and he will use them to carry off the Hetzian king’s adept, creator of the Sentient Fire.”
“I’ve heard of it.” Girays was listening intently.
“He expected my assistance in locating Nevenskoi’s hidden workroom. When I threatened to expose the plan, he shot me. But he will find another guide, he will claim that great prize for the Imperium before the night ends.”
“No he won’t. I’ll inform the palace guards, and he’ll be detained.”
“Not enough. You thwart him tonight. What then?”
“It will do for now. Don’t talk anymore. Lie still while I—”
“It will not do, and you know this. It is not enough merely to deprive the Imperium of the new weapon. This in itself will not save Vonahr, or any other target nation. In order to preserve herself Vonahr must secure this Sentient Fire, and use it.”
Against the Imperium? Girays hesitated. He considered the possibility of a ruse, and dismissed it; not from Karsler Stornzof, not now. Confusion or lightheadedness?
“My mind is clear,” Stornzof answered the unspoken question. “And I am still a Grewzian. For that very reason I serve the Imperium no longer. These past weeks I have seen its face too clearly.”
“That’s why you crossed the grandlandsman?”
“It is no time to explain. Help me up.”
“Stay where you are while I get the doctor.”
“Not yet. I am not so badly off. I am well enough to lead you to that hidden workroom. What happens when we reach it is your concern. Ah, your face, v’Alisante.” Stornzof managed the shadow of a smile. “So astonished.”
To say the least. Girays considered. If Stornzof could actually bring him face-to-face with the elusive Nevenskoi—if he could talk directly to the adept, bribe or otherwise persuade him to cooperate—then the entire troublesome matter of winning Mad Miltzin’s capricious consent could be sidestepped. The adept, carrying vital knowledge in his head, might embark for Sherreen this very night. The opportunity was unique and priceless.
“You think you can find the way?” Girays did not let his eyes dwell on the other’s wound.
“To an arcane source, yes. I’ve a sense of such things.”
“I remember. But your wound is serious, and you’d best—”
“Do not concern yourself. Come, you cannot afford to refuse.”
He was right. Girays’s conscience kicked, and he ignored it. “Here, take my hand.”
Stornzof rose with difficulty, assistance notwithstanding. A gasp hissed down his throat and then he was upright but unsteady, obliged to lean heavily on Girays’s supporting arm.
“It is down below, I believe,” he said. “We must find our way to the bottom of the building.”
Girays nodded. Together they made their halting way from the antechamber and along the corridor. A trail of red droplets spotted the floor behind them.
THE GRANDLANDSMAN’S EAGLE GAZE swept the Long Gallery. The place was full of noise, heat, and foreign fools. Everywhere his eyes encountered idiotically animated faces, but nowhere did he spy the one he sought. He did not propose to waste precious tim
e interviewing prospective guides. His aim fixed on the one man undoubtedly capable of leading him straight to the prize—King Miltzin IX himself; an audacious masterstroke certain to provoke international outrage, but justifiable in view of the stakes. The diplomats were welcome to wring their hands, but success would ensure the imperior’s approval, and his was the only opinion that counted.
The king, however, was nowhere in evidence. Presumably he would appear at some point, when it suited him, but Torvid did not mean to wait upon Hetzian pleasure. Frowning, he caught the eye of the nearest black-and-grey retainer. A discreet nod, and the disguised commando approached. A terse conversation ensued, at the conclusion of which the liveried figure bowed and withdrew.
Torvid watched as his minion moved smoothly about the room, pausing twice to exchange words with fellow ersatz servants, who in turn approached three similarly ersatz guests. He nodded. His six commandos had received their amended orders. They knew now that the plan of attack had altered, and they knew that their leader required the present whereabouts of the Hetzian monarch. They did not know why the plan had changed. His frown deepened, and an anger too strong to ignore rose to heat his thoughts. They did not know that a member of House Stornzof had revealed himself as a traitor to his country and his imperior. They did not know that a Stornzof of pure blood had manifested weakness, criminal stupidity, and inferiority. They did not know and with any luck they never would, for his own decisive action had saved the day, forestalling disgrace and preserving the Stornzof name.
No one would ever know why Karsler Stornzof had died. His hero’s reputation would endure, and nobody other than Torvid Stornzof would recognize the pathetic absurdity of the sham.
It should not have been a sham, there was no sense or reason to it. His sister’s son’s moral collapse was inexplicable as it was unforgivable, and a swift, clean death with pure fame left intact was insufficient redress. The traitor had gotten off far too easily.
The grandlandsman was impatient with his own silent wrath. It was too insistent, and he could not afford the distraction. His men were already at work; presently one or another would deliver the information he sought, and then he would act. In the meantime he could not stand conspicuously aloof, he must assume the demeanor of an ordinary guest.
Accepting a glass from a passing waiter, he swallowed Belle of Sevagne and surveyed surrounding faces. Most were unknown to him and he preferred to keep it that way, but not far away stood the Major General Laarslof, kinsman to the Hetzian king and noted military historian, whose society was not intolerable. Approaching the major general, he initiated conversation. Laarslof related improbable rumors concerning the development of new ironclad warships, to which Torvid listened with half an ear while his purposeful thoughts anchored on Miltzin IX. Where was the king, and what was keeping him?
WRIGGLING FREE OF THE KING’S EMBRACE, Luzelle rose from the couch. Flustered, she brushed a straying damp tendril of hair out of her eyes. Matters were not proceeding properly. Somehow the topic of Sentient Fire had lost itself. Miltzin had other things on his mind, and it was all she could do to fend him off without discouraging him altogether. Time to redirect the conversation.
“Where are you off to, my dear?” the king inquired. His face was flushed, his chest rose and fell rapidly. He patted the empty seat beside him. “Come back; I miss you.”
“Please, Sire, I must speak with you. I’ve a message of great importance.”
“Do you have to deliver it from halfway across the room?”
“I think I must, if I’m to keep a clear head,” she flattered.
“What is the use of a clear head at a time like this? We have found one another. Experience the moment, my dear. Abandon yourself to sensation.”
“Sire, I can’t allow myself to give way, at least not before I’ve delivered my message. It is only this: My government has authorized me to offer a great sum in exchange for the secret of the Sentient Fire. Vonahr is prepared to pay thirty million New-rekkoes.” Vo Rouvignac had advised her to start low, allowing the king to work the price up by degrees. Hopefully Luzelle awaited a counteroffer.
“You are a Vonahrish agent?” Miltzin IX sat up straight, and his face darkened. “This meeting is another diplomatic ploy? You’ve gained my presence under false pretenses?”
“Sire, I’m the winner of the Grand Ellipse. There’s nothing false about that.” Luzelle’s chin came up. “But part of the victor’s prize was an audience with Your Majesty, and I, as a Vonahrishwoman, couldn’t neglect this opportunity to act on behalf of my country.”
“I cannot abide dishonesty, and I am tired to death of this incessant harassment.”
“Easy enough to end it,” she suggested.
“You are a divine creature, but you don’t understand politics. The Low Hetz is historically neutral. This posture never alters.”
“May I suggest, Sire, that Hetzian inaction at this time effectively supports the Grewzian Imperium, thus violating your supposed neutrality?”
“Gad, a paradox. I’m not certain it’s a sound argument, but it’s entertaining.”
“King Miltzin IX of the Low Hetz is renowned throughout the world for his sense of justice, his humanitarian vision, and his generosity,” she improvised. “In accepting the Vonahrish offer—a great sum of money to replenish the Hetzian treasury—Your Majesty serves both your own nation and the rest of the world.”
“I doubt that my cousin Ogron would view the matter in such a light.”
“And how long in the normal course of events, Sire, before the imperior’s ambitions fix on Lower Hetzia?”
“You don’t mince words, do you, my dear?”
“I don’t flatter myself that I voice any thought new to Your Majesty.”
“Lower Hetzia is capable of self-defense. And yet those Grewzians are blighting the world. Cousin Ogron never knows when to stop,” Miltzin mused. Pouring himself a glass of champagne, he drank it off in a couple of gulps, and frowned. “What was that sum you named, my dear?”
“Thirty million New-rekkoes, Sire.”
“It is fairly considerable.”
“Very considerable, Majesty.” She studied his abstracted frown, and hope dawned. She was making progress, she was sure of it.
“I am in a position to serve as a great benefactor.”
“A role that well becomes Your Majesty.”
“You are persuasive, my dear.”
“Your Majesty’s own sense of judgment is my best advocate.”
“Perhaps. The matter cannot be ignored forever. The clamoring only grows louder by the day.” Refilling his own glass and hers, the king invited, “But come back, my dear, and sit here beside me. There is much to discuss, and I cannot shout across the room at you. Come, sit down.”
She could hardly refuse without giving offense. Suppressing a sigh, she returned to the couch, and Miltzin’s hands were on her at once.
BY THE TIME THEY REACHED the barrel-vaulted grey stone corridor deep underground, Girays had lost all sense of direction, but Stornzof evinced no confusion. A couple of times he paused, either to get his bearings or to rest, but the hesitations were minimal. The sense that drew him along a complex obscure path to an arcane source never failed, but the same could not be said of his strength. His pace was slow, he stumbled often, and then it was only the support of the arm and shoulder on which he leaned that held him upright. But his voice was calm and clear as ever, if subdued, when he halted before a stout door veiled in the shadows of a deep recess to announce, “Here.”
Girays glanced at him almost in surprise, for the way had seemed endless and the arrival was abrupt. Stornzof’s face was ashen even in the warm light of the iron lanterns suspended overhead. Alarm stirred at the sight, but he did not let it touch his voice as he asked, “Sure?”
The other nodded. Girays tried the door and found it unlocked. Evidently the occupant, if any, feared no intrusion. He opened the door and they went through into a well-lighted, well-proportioned space
full of marvels. Another time, the workroom contents would have fascinated him. This evening his eyes skipped over the tall shelves with their myriad glass vessels, the great vats, the dormant automata, the instruments, the Conglomerates, antique folios, pit-of-elements, and all the rest, to fasten on a man who sat alone at the table with a book open before him and a half-eaten bowl of lard-smackers beside him. The stranger jumped to his feet as they entered; a shortish, pudgy-faced figure clothed in the traditional black robe of savant, with the loose sleeves rolled up sloppily. He had sandy hair, thin on top, sandy moustache and imperial, and a look of amazement.
“Master Nevenskoi?” asked Girays.
“Neeper. I am Nitz Neeper,” proclaimed the other, without a trace of Rhazaullean accent.
“I want the savant Nevenskoi.”
“I’ve used that name. What is this? Who are you?” He was staring at the blood-soaked Grewzian officer. “What’s happened?”
“He’s been shot. Can you help?”
“I’m no physician. I can summon Dr. Arnheltz. He—”
“No time.” Stornzof’s voice was alarmingly weak. He swayed, no longer able to stand. “Set me down on the floor.”
Girays obeyed, lowering the wounded man as gently as possible.
Stornzof made no sound, but his eyes squeezed shut for a moment. He opened them and commanded calmly, “Tell him.”
Girays wavered, tempted to remonstrate, but there was no time. Turning to the bewildered Nevenskoi or Neeper, he announced without preamble, “We are here to warn you. There’s a Grewzian plan to abduct you tonight. If it succeeds you’ll be spirited off to Grewzland, where you and your Sentient Fire will enter the service of the imperior, willingly or unwillingly.”
“Grewzian?” Neeper’s uncomprehending eyes fastened on Stornzof’s uniform. “But, then—”
“This officer doesn’t condone his countrymen’s methods,” Girays explained shortly. “Now listen. The Grewzian agents present in the palace tonight will take you as soon as they manage to find their way to this room, and I don’t think they’ll need much time. Your powers are uncommon, perhaps you can defend yourself, I don’t know. But I believe your best course would be to remove yourself from this place at once. Seek refuge somewhere. I myself will conduct you from the Waterwitch if you wish.”