by Dave Duncan
After fifty or so boyars and wives had met the Ambassador, the company adjourned to a pillared hall for some refreshments. The courtiers sat at a single long table. At one end, two smaller tables stood at an angle to each other, forming an arrowhead—the highest for the royal family and Wassail’s slightly lower, but higher than the boyars’. Everyone ate off gold plate. The toasts began.
Igor’s hounds crouched at his feet, staring fixedly at the visitors. Arkell resigned himself to standing behind his ward’s left elbow until dawn.
Czarina Sophie ate and drank little and spoke only to answer questions. Her husband made no effort to include her in the conversation and the betrothal that had provoked the gathering was barely mentioned. No one inquired about the groom’s teeth or the bride’s breath.
Oak had shaved off his beard sometime during the afternoon.
It was apparently acceptable for guests to nod off and take up feasting again when they awoke. Most of them were built like carthorses and also grossly overdressed, in layer upon layer of silks and brocade. The women did not drink as much as their menfolk, but they ate more.
The hounds’ teeth were daggers and their lolling tongues as long as insoles. Surely it was unnatural for dogs to stay awake for hours on end? Once during the evening the huge black one rose, walked over to a pillar, and relieved itself. When it came back to its place, the other did the same. The Czar spoke and a nervous footman brought buckets of water for them to drink.
More toasts, more food, an army of fresh servants…
The Czar volunteered almost no information. He asked a lot of questions.
The Walrus turned lobster-red but held his liquor well. He minded his manners, fawned as expected, and talked as required—about his journey, his ancestors, modern farming (a subject that did seem to interest the Czar a little), and also about the Chivian form of government, which made him sneer. Fedor had been sneering all night, except when he looked at the Czarina.
There was something between those two, but Arkell could not guess what. Fedor stared a lot at the lovely Sophie, yet Sophie never looked at him. Arkell made a mental note to ask Beau’s opinion. Beau’s instincts for people were rarely wrong.
Along toward morning, when the candles were winking out in the chandeliers, when the servants had stopped bringing food, when most of the guests were asleep in their chairs or stretched out on the floor, and the Czarevich snored with his head among the dishes, the Czar suddenly said, “So those are Blades, are they?”
Arkell snapped alert.
Wassail said, “Hmm?” He glanced over his shoulder as if he had forgotten them, his eyes sadly blurred. “Yes, sire. Three of them.”
Not six, just three.
The Czar had drunk far more than Wassail had, yet did not show it. “Present them.”
Wassail started mumbling about Blades never being presented, then remembered he was addressing an autocrat. “Voyvode Beaumont…”
Beau nodded respectfully, an acknowledgment that raised the Czar’s eyebrows.
“Sir Oak…Sir Arkell…” Two more nods.
“So,” said the Emperor of the Skyrrians. “Beaumont, was it?”
Beau spoke for the first time in hours. “Yes, Your Majesty.”
“What noble house bred you?”
“I am baseborn, sire.”
The Czarina’s blue eyes widened in surprise. The Czar frowned.
“Tell us about Ironhall.”
A coldness like steel touched Arkell’s spine. He had a bizarre hunch that Igor had been waiting all night to ask that question, possibly waiting for months. He might even have arranged his niece’s wedding just to…No, that was ridiculous! But clearly Voevode Viazemski’s little plot to keep his imperial master ignorant about the Blades’ bindings had been doomed from the start. Monarchs asked questions in public only when the matter was utterly trivial or they already had a very good idea of the answers.
No one else except the Czarina was paying attention. The few remaining servants would not care; the guests were either unconscious or too drunk to understand.
“Ironhall is a school where unwanted boys are trained as swordsmen, Your Majesty.”
Silence.
The Czar said, “Continue talking about it until we tell you to stop.”
Beau talked: history, setting, architecture, climate, inhabitants, curriculum, diet.
When he came to the wildflowers, Igor said, “Stop. You would die to save your ward? You are bound to absolute loyalty?”
Again, the Czar knew the answer. The only reason he had allowed Wassail to bring three Blades into High Town was because Blades could not be parted from their ward. Arkell wanted to kick Beau’s ankle.
But Beau had seen the trap. “We swore an oath. Many of our Order have given their lives for their wards.”
“More than an oath. Describe how you were bound to your ward.”
Only Arkell and Oak could have seen Beau’s finger jab into his ward’s back. Wassail was having great difficulty holding his head up, but at that he roused himself.
“Don’t answer, Beau. Sorry, Shire. Bindinsh a shtate shecret.”
Igor’s eyes narrowed. He spoke to Beaumont. “And you cannot refuse an order from your ward, yes?”
“Not so, sire. Absolute loyalty, not absolute obedience. I will refuse an order if I think it puts him in danger.”
“So!” The Czar disapproved of that. “And when your ward dies you go insane and slaughter innocent bystanders.”
“That can happen, if our ward dies by violence. This prospect is another layer of defense, of course.”
The Czar smiled his approval of that. “Master Hakluyt insists that the conjuration involves a sword driven through your heart.”
Jab! again.
Wassail sighed and seemed to swallow a yawn. “Thash correct, Majesty. Common knowledge.”
“Does it leave a scar, Beaumont?”
“Yes, it does, sire.”
“On your back as well? The sword went right through you?”
“So I am told.”
“Show us this wonder.”
“Sire?” Even Beau could be surprised sometimes.
“Bashful?” Igor smiled. “Reluctant to uncover your manly chest in public?”
Like a reflecting pool, the scene rippled and changed. The Czarina blushed madly and dropped her gaze. The Czar’s contempt became lechery. The unspoken word autocrat slammed down like a broadsword. Arkell looked in horror at Beau. Oak, beyond him, was aghast.
Beau’s smile never flickered. “It hardly seems proper in these surroundings, if Your Majesty will forgive my saying so.”
The Czar said, “Vasili! Iakov!”
The hounds were on their feet in an instant, teeth bared, hackles rising. Arkell’s hand reached for Reason.
“But you would satisfy our curiosity in private, Beaumont?”
Surely this was a nightmare! If the Czar reported back to Chivial that the Ambassador had never reached Kiensk, that brigands had ambushed and slaughtered his whole train, there would be nothing Athelgar could do! Except cut off trade, and small compensation that would be.
Incredibly, Beau was still smiling. “I should be honored to satisfy Your Majesty’s curiosity.”
“We so wish,” the Czar said.
“Eh?” Wassail said, reacting at last. “What? Now, look here—” He moved as if to rise and Beau’s hand on his shoulder pushed him down.
Beau unfastened his baldric and handed Just Desert to Arkell, scabbard and all. “You have the sash,” he said softly.
Arkell opened his mouth to protest and the steel in Beau’s eyes cut him off. Beau stepped around him and bowed to the Czar. The dogs curled their lips but did nothing more.
Igor rose. The Czarina rose, keeping her face lowered. Czarevich Fedor snored on. A few guests lurched to their feet and tried to bow. The Emperor of the Skyrrians walked unsteadily from the hall with his arm around Beau’s shoulders, leaning on him, followed by Vasili, Iakov, and then the Cza
rina.
• 9 •
It was almost morning. Dawn would soon be slipping poniards of light between the bed curtains, but Sophie could not sleep. It was not Igor’s shameless behavior that kept her staring at the darkness with eyes sore from weeping—not that in itself, at least, although his actions were becoming more and more blatant. Many people who might overlook his degradation of upstart princes would draw the line at baseborn foreign soldiers. The whispers would grow louder, and there were whispers, whether he admitted it or not. What worried her was that such gossip would make him even more anxious to prove his virility. The need for another czarevich would grow more urgent, and that meant Fedor.
Fedor knew. Oh, yes, Fedor had been told the plan. If he had not said anything to her last night it was only because he had not been able to catch her alone. His sneers had been message enough. Fedor would love to father a brother for himself on his stepmother.
Sometime today she must have a private word with Igor, although how she would arrange that she could not imagine. She must explain to him that his plan to safeguard her child would not work unless Fedor was absolutely certain that it was his. Since Igor had lain with her last night, she might be bearing already. Igor must hold Fedor back for at least another month. That would buy her some time.
Time for what she could not imagine.
Light? Morning? Had she slept without knowing it?
The chinks of light grew brighter, dimmed, brightened again, and then faded away altogether, as if Igor had opened and closed the corner door. On the rare nights he wanted her, he threw it wide and shouted for her. He would not enter a dark room.
So it was not Igor.
She rose on one elbow to peer through a gap. She made out the blur of a face, pale hair. Even his hands. He was standing by the connecting door, waiting for his eyes to adjust to the dark.
Strangely, she was not afraid. Not at all. Sorry for him, yes. Afraid for him, if he was about to try what she thought he was.
Minutes dragged by like hours, but eventually the Chivian began to move, very slowly, toward the outer door. He would know that the direct exit from Igor’s room was guarded by the dogs.
“You’d better not open that one either.”
He turned. “Your pardon, Majesty. I mean no harm.”
“My maid sleeps out there. She is old, but not deaf, and sleeps very lightly. Even if she does not waken, you cannot leave the royal suite without running into streltsy.”
He sighed. “Then I beg you to forgive my intrusion. I will go back and wait until His Majesty awakens and dismisses me.”
“Wait!” she said. She did not know why. A strange man in her room and she had no clothes on—it would be his death warrant, hers as well, and the nastiest sort of deaths. “Pass me that robe. On that chest.”
He handed it in through the drapes. When she emerged, he had moved over to the window, where he was more visible. She walked across to him—barefoot, her hair unbound. She was being very foolish and did not care. How long before Igor wakened and came looking for his new friend?
“There is another way out.”
“Ah!” The foreigner’s eyes caught the light of the sky and shone silver.
“But of course that won’t work, will it?” What had she been thinking of? The swordsman was clever, as he had shown under Igor’s questioning. “You weren’t trying to leave.” He had been snooping. Looking for something to steal, no doubt.
“I was bored, my lady. But you are right—I cannot use the secret way without incriminating you. Unless the access is from your husband’s room?”
“You know what I am talking about?”
“I knew there must be hidden exits when I examined our quarters in the West Wing. Whoever designed those doors and stairs would never tolerate dead-ends. There must be bolt-holes. I planned to look for them tomorrow. Today, I mean.”
“Look for trapdoors next to the outer wall. Here.” Between window and fireplace— “Help me move this chest.”
“Let me, please!” He wrestled the chest aside without her help, although she had seen porters twice his size strain to move that one. She knelt and pulled back the bearskin rug. “You can’t see it, but there is a finger hole, looks like a knothole…here. A section lifts out.”
He was kneeling close beside her. Their hands touched. She took hers away.
“Found it,” he said softly. He tilted the slab, then closed it. “Where does it lead?”
“Down to the cellars. They all lead there. I don’t know if there is a shaft under the Czar’s room or not, but there are certainly others in the palace.” She assumed Igor knew, although he had never mentioned them. Dimitri had shown her the secret when she was a child, one time they had come to Kiensk with their parents. He had learned it years before from Czarevna Avramia, who had been about his age and had died when Sophie was very small.
“I am deeply in your debt, Your Grace.”
“I think Skyrria owes you something.” She was very conscious of the man’s nearness. Her heart was flapping like a chicken coop with a fox in it. “The shafts are narrow, like chimneys. My husband could not get through them. Or Boyar Wassail. They are exits only, not entrances. It would be very hard for a man to come in this way, even if he knew where to look. He would need to climb on something to reach the—” She hesitated. “The hatch in the cellar roof.”
“But a small, nimble man could?” There was mirth in his voice.
“I did not mean that!” Hurriedly—“Please, will you tell me something?” She must send him away. Igor might waken.
“Anything, Your Grace.”
“What sort of a man is King Athelgar? Really, I mean? My sister—”
“He is a good man! I have met him and the Blades know all about him. Thirty years old. Slim, taller than me—about the same build as Sir Arkell, who stood on my left tonight. He is abstemious, restless, active; has no serious vices. Tell your sister not to worry.”
“I shall. Thank you.”
“He is also a very lonely man, I think.”
“A king lonely?” She tried to make the question sound flippant, and it did not. It seemed to echo: a queen lonely?
“I have heard that ruling is a lonely business.”
Their shoulders were touching. She did not pull away.
Nor did he. “Athelgar was born and raised in a distant land. Many of the friends he brought with him to Chivial shamed him, and he had to send them away. If he starts favoring a lady, he upsets the political balance of the country. He has learned to be a solitary, self-contained man, but it does not suit him. He needs a soul mate.”
“We all do.”
He slid his arm around her. She did not protest. This was madness! Considering the risks he was taking by just being here, he ought to be trembling like jelly. She was, but he was steady as the palace. Igor was a coward, with his dogs and his fear of the dark. This man was not.
“I also have a question. Why did your sister leave Kiensk so hurriedly?”
“What makes you think she did?”
“All the time we were being led around in circles, your brother was writing to his wife here in Kiensk and she was replying.”
“Will you keep it a secret?”
“If I can. A Blade’s loyalty to his ward is absolute, my lady. I have no choice in that.”
“She fell and bruised her face. The Czar thought it would be inappropriate for her to—”
“Fell?”
“Princesses can fall like lesser folk.”
His grip around her shoulders tightened. “Not without reason, Your Grace.”
“Her horse shied, and—”
“Your brother said she is a keen and skilled horsewoman and was unhappy because she had no chance to ride here in Kiensk.”
She was silent.
“Sophie?” —very softly.
“Fedor struck her. He was drunk.”
“I can believe that of Fedor.”
“That was all, I swear! There were many witnesses
, and she came to no harm but that.”
“Then I will tell no one. I also swear. Thank you for trusting me.”
She had thought that all kisses tasted of stale wine, but his did not. It was a surprise. It was sweet. She did not know how it had happened. Or how to end it.
He ended it. “I must go,” he whispered.
“Yes.”
Yet still they knelt there with their arms around each other.
“Tomorrow I will see if our quarters have access to the cellars,” he said. “Are all the cellars connected?”
“Yes.”
“How could I know this shaft?”
He did not ask her if she had explored it, but of course she had, the first time Igor had gone off to Czaritsyn and left her. “By smell. The vinegar store. The ceiling tiles are patterned. Circles mark the hatches.”
“May I come and see you tomorrow?”
“You are insane even to think of it!”
“Beauty does that to men, and women more beautiful than you do not exist.” He kissed her again, for longer, and ended with a sigh. “I think you are in need of a little tenderness. Am I right?”
“…Maybe.”
“I am. It is many months since I bade farewell to the woman I will marry. Sharing tenderness is all that gives us strength to face the cruelty of the world. But you decide. Hang a cord through that finger hole so I can see it from below. That will be the signal. No cord, no caller.”
He did not ask if she would be alone. He could guess how little interest Igor had in her now.
“You must go!” she whispered, and added, “Another night would be safer.” There!
“And better. I am not looking for revenge, Sophie.”
“I am.” She said it without knowing she was going to, or even that it was true. But it was.
He kissed her a third time, his hand wandering inside her robe. When she began to shiver with joy, he pulled away. “Not revenge,” he whispered. “We must make love to take joy in each other, not just to get back at him. That would spoil it.”
“It would make it sweeter, far sweeter. Don’t stop now.”