Paragon Lost

by Dave Duncan

  Remembering in time that she did not have to curtsey now, Tasha nodded regally and said, “Good chance, Sister!”, spoiling the effect with a slight hiccough. “Did you enjoy my wedding?”

  “I see you did! Yes, it was wonderful. And you were wonderful! You made every male heart in the room turn cartwheels.” Sophie hugged her…then held her a moment while subjecting her to a studied look. “I just came to say so and wish you good night.”

  “That’s all?”

  “I think it had better be all. Come and see me first thing in the morning.” Sophie spread her smile around the princesses. “You were all wonderful—storybook beauties, all of you!”

  With that she took her leave, but Tasha was just sober enough to know that whatever lay behind the cryptic summons was probably not good news.

  • 6 •

  Horse-drawn sleighs swept along the streets of Kiensk with bells jingling and whips cracking. Low morning sun and ice haze turned the sky to milk; the air felt like icicles up his nose. Muffled in his own weight of furs, Oak hurried along a trench that pedestrians had tramped through the drifts. Four or five months of this and a month or two of mud and mosquitoes, and then the Chivians could load up and leave—unless the Czar decided to enlist three Blades in his streltsy.

  Oak now shared the late Boyar Basmanov’s low opinion of Skyrrian healers. They had repaired his sword arm and most of the damage to his chest, but the bout of wound fever that followed would never have happened in Chivial. They had fallen short of healing the shoulder the dog had wrecked, and he doubted he would ever have much use of it in future. Still, one arm was better than none and it was a huge relief to be heading back to his ward at last.

  Wearing Sorrow, he was challenged at the gate to High Town and again at the Imperial Palace. Both times he was allowed through when he showed his pass and no one seemed surprised that a dead man had returned. He marched along high corridors, ducked through doorways, and arrived at West Wing.

  Percy let him in and beamed with delight at seeing the lost sheep. Apparently the sheep was late—Wassail was perched on a stool in the entrance hall, although more of him hung over than fitted. Beau and Arkell and Dinwiddie were standing around. All the faces lit up.

  “Sir Oak!” Wassail rumbled. “You are welcome back, my lad! We have all missed you.”

  Oak bowed as well as his furs allowed. “It is pleasure to be back, my lord!”

  “You have recovered your health, I understand?”

  “Indeed I have, my lord.” He did not like the look of his ward’s health, though—color too high and face too puffy— and he could hear his lungs bubbling like brewers’ vats. “You were a handsome bridegroom yesterday, I understand.”

  The Walrus chortled. “Wish I had been! His Majesty will be rapturously pleased when he meets his charming young bride. Yes, the ceremony was a great success. Let us be on our way, Commander.” He heaved himself upright and lumbered in the direction of the door, leaning on his cane.

  Arkell followed, glowering, and then Pursuivant, who looked like a fish with sea sickness.

  Beau, of course, was smiling cheerily. “His Excellency has requested an audience. We are about to beard the wolf in his den.”

  “Wolves don’t have beards,” Oak protested. He was letting his grow in again.

  “This one does. Understand—the only levers we have are that the Czar values Chivian trade and is flattered to see his niece be a Queen. He wants Skyrria recognized as a part of Eurania and himself honored as a great and civilized monarch.”

  “So?”

  “So you are evidence that he’s a monster criminal barbarian. Try and stay invisible until you’re needed. Don’t be surprised at anything the Walrus says.” Smiling angelically, Beau stooped into the doorway.

  Being invisible was no great trick when everyone was muffled to the eyes against the cold, even indoors. Oak just hung back a little as the Ambassador and his delegation entered the Hall of Columns by a side door; heralds escorted them toward the center aisle. A hundred great pillars, no two alike, were doubtless of artistic merit, but they ruined the sight lines. Oak caught brief glimpses of the Czar enthroned at one end with the giant dog called Vasili at his feet, some wretch who was currently the focus of imperial attention kneeling before the throne, and various high officials lurking nearby. The shadowy outer reaches of the hall were crawling with streltsy cockroaches. When the Chivians were halted to await their turn, these ominous figures began drifting inward.

  The Ambassador was not kept waiting long. Heralds proclaimed him and the old man trudged forward with Pursuivant, Beau, and Arkell. Oak leaned against the nearest column, folding his arms because that made his shoulder hurt less. He couldn’t see the Czar from there, or even Wassail, but he could hear perfectly well, and he could watch Beau.

  Streltsy emerged from behind nearby pillars to scowl suspiciously at him. Soon more joined them, and he supposed he ought to feel flattered that his demonstration of fencing had scared the Czar into mustering such an army.

  Igor terminated the formalities abruptly. “And what is so urgent or secret that you will not reveal it except to us personally?” His voice was harsh.

  Wassail’s sounded deceptively jovial. “Yesterday’s felicitous nuptials having brought my primary mission to fruition, sire, all that remains for me now to complete my charge is to escort Queen Tasha and her train and baggage to Chivial. I came to request—”

  “You are not proposing to drag all those highborn ladies all across Eurania at this time of year, I hope?”

  “Of course not, Your Majesty. But I wish to consolidate my mission under one roof. The quarters you so generously put at our disposal in the town will be more than adequate for all of us.”

  “You spurn our house?” The Czar’s anger crackled.

  Wassail’s voice remained calm, but it was easy to imagine his pudding face set in stubborn folds. “I have certain reservations about security and will feel happier with an independent establishment. Her Majesty will expect all the fine treasures recently presented to her to be transported to the—”

  If that was a diplomatic way of calling the Czar a thief, it was not diplomatic enough.

  “Security!?” he bellowed. “Reservations? What reservations?”

  Oak did not need Beau’s nod to recognize his cue. He walked out from behind his column and took up position behind his ward.

  Igor’s tirade choked off in a gurgle of fear. The hound leaped to its feet, bristling. Then it bayed. Shuddering, Oak reached for his sword. The Czar yelled at the brute to sit, but he was unable to drag his eyes away from the newcomer. Had it occurred to Beau that Skyrrians were superstitious, that Igor might denounce Oak as a walking corpse and order him buried or burned at the stake?

  Courtiers stared in puzzled surprise at the Czar’s dismay. The Czarina and Czarevich were certainly absent. Voevode Viazemski seemed to be, but might be lurking in the shadows.

  “Need I go into detail, Your Majesty?” Wassail demanded.

  “Get out! Go!” The Czar did not enjoy being threatened in his own throne room.

  “May we first discuss the inventory of wedding gifts and make arrangements for them to be packed and delivered to—”

  “Go away!” Igor roared, jumping up. Vasili bayed again.

  The boyars were aghast. Wassail, normally so obsequious to monarchs, was sneering as if he dealt with a surly churl.

  “Am I to infer from Your Majesty’s remarks that I am now persona non grata? If so, will Your Majesty kindly instruct Chief Boyar Skuratov to issue me my passport, so that I may make plans—”

  “Get him out of my sight!”

  The guards advanced. Wassail shrugged. Without as much as a nod, he turned his back on the Emperor of the Skyrrians and trudged away. Oak brought up the rear.

  • 7 •

  Not a word was spoken until they reached West Wing, although Oak thought he heard Dinwiddie moaning to himself a few times. Wassail headed straight for Great Hall and sl
umped down on the oversized stool he favored. For a moment he was an exhausted old man, then he replaced his mask to leer at Pursuivant.

  “Enjoyed that!”

  Dinwiddie shuddered. “Your lordship set the Skyrrians a strange example of chivalric deportment.”

  Curiously, the big table was piled with clothes, documents, and other personal possessions. Oak recognized some of his own among them.

  “You were magnificent, my lord,” Beau said. “If his mother had taken that tone with him more often, he might be better behaved now.”

  “Well, Pursuivant? Have I royal leave to go home?”

  “Home, Excellency?” Dinwiddie howled. “In midwinter?”

  “Tell him, Commander.”

  Beau was enjoying himself, as always. “It is not midwinter yet, Pursuivant. This is an excellent time to travel if you want speed. Those horse sleighs go like lightning. The question is, has the Czar dismissed his lordship?”

  The herald looked as flustered as a wet rooster. “Well…no…Leaving Skyrria without permission is a capital of-fence. Foreigners’ movements are strictly controlled. Despite the Czar’s peremptory words, you still need your passport, Excellency.”

  The Ambassador and his chief Blade exchanged glances.

  Oak felt sick. “Why?” he demanded. “You cannot expect Queen Tasha and her ladies to travel in winter, surely? And all her baggage?” It was impossible to imagine the obdurate old Wassail giving in so easily, terminating his mission, abandoning the new Queen and her riches.

  “No one could expect that,” Beau said, “which is— Enter!”

  Kimberley crouched in. “A messenger, Commander. He insists on delivering a letter to you personally.”

  “Send him.”

  A moment later a page entered. He bowed to the Ambassador, but then went to Beau to hand him a paper.

  Beau broke the seal and read it, frowning. “There may be an answer shortly. Wait outside, lad, please.”

  “Thank you, sir.” He bowed again and turned to the door.

  “Boy!” Wassail barked.

  “My lord?”

  “What’s your name?”

  “Timofei, Your Excellency.”

  “Your mistress trained you well.”

  The kid smiled. “She will be pleased to hear that, my lord.” He went out, still grinning.

  “So, where were we?” Beau said. “Ah, yes. No one will expect his lordship to leave now, without the ladies. But he did twist the Czar’s nose, and when Igor is upset by anything—the loss of a dog, for example—then he usually goes off to his lair at Czaritsyn to cheer himself up by massacring a few peasants or torturing somebody. We are hoping that he will do that now.”

  “We’re leaving?” Arkell said incredulously. “When?”

  “Today. We’re officially off to the knights’ house, but most of us won’t be stopping there. You’ve got to find Morkuta for us. Then we head upstream, on the ice. I’ve been told we will make Dvonograd in three days if the weather holds.”

  Dinwiddie was green again. “But Her Majesty! Queen Tasha!”

  Beau and his ward exchanged more glances.

  “You didn’t look very hard at Timofei, Pursuivant,” Wassail said, with a notably carnivorous smirk.

  Oak sat down. The herald made a strangled noise. Arkell turned stark white; his hand groped for his sword.

  “I’ll explain later,” Beau said softly. After a quick glance at Oak he went back to watching Arkell. “Perhaps you should change for the journey now, my lord? Take this watch, please, brother. Oak, look over this gear and pick out anything you absolutely cannot part with. We’ll be traveling light.”

  “Me too?” Pursuivant wailed.

  “You stay in Kiensk,” Wassail said, heaving himself off the chair. “As chargé d’affaires. You and Sir Dixon will be escorting Her Majesty’s ladies next spring.”

  Oak stayed seated until everyone except Beau had left. Neither spoke while Beau pulled up a chair in front of Oak. Only then did he meet his eye.

  “It’ll kill him,” Oak said.

  Beau sighed and nodded. “Yes, Oak, my good friend. But he’s dying anyway! Can’t you see? He’s never going home. He won’t breathe the scents of spring, here or anywhere.”

  “Who are you to say that?” Was there any way to stop this madness?

  “I’m his Blade,” Beau said sadly. “And I’m encouraging him in something that’s going to kill him. No, I’m not a healer or a medico, but I don’t have to be, do I? Brother, if his heart doesn’t give out on its own, the Czar will kill him! Igor is obsessed with learning the secrets of the King’s Blades. He’ll never let us three leave Skyrria. Even if he doesn’t lock up our ward to coerce us, Wassail wouldn’t leave without us! He’s just as stubborn.”

  Oak rubbed his shoulder. It hurt more when he did that. He wanted to scream.

  “I’m breaking my oath, I suppose,” Beau said, “but it doesn’t feel like it. My binding isn’t stopping me. I don’t expect him to survive the journey, no. That’s why I didn’t consult you or Arkell—when he dies, you’ll need someone to blame, and you’ll have me. I’m ordering you to obey, Oak.”

  “What about the wedding gifts?”

  “His lordship says they aren’t worth a man’s life. Not many people would agree with him, but that’s what he says.”

  “And that girl is coming with us?”

  Beau’s eyes shone like old, smooth silver coins. “The boy, you mean? That’s why the Walrus is doing it, of course. He’s escorting his Queen home to Chivial, as he set out to do. He’ll die doing his duty, not drowning in phlegm in a foreign bed or screaming in Igor’s dungeons.”

  “And what’s in it for her?”

  “Freedom.”

  To hear Leader pleading for his approval made Oak squirm.

  “She’s terrified of Igor,” Beau said, “and that brute son of his. And work it out—if Igor locks up three of Athelgar’s Blades and murders his ambassador, is he likely to let his niece go strutting around Athelgar’s court telling tales? Or part with that hill of goodies the princes gave her for wedding presents? You should have seen him drooling over them. Tasha’s young, but she knows enough to go while the going is good.”

  Oak sat for a while. How in the world had Beau ever organized this? “No,” he said. “You’re not ordering me. I insist you do it. I won’t let you have all the guilt.”

  Beau grinned. “Oh, good man! Good friend! And the old rascal may surprise us yet. He’s tough as flint and he dearly wants to parade into Greymere Palace with Queen Tasha on his arm. Look over that heap and tell me if there’s anything you need.”

  “There isn’t.”

  “Then go and relieve Arkell. Send him down here so I can twist his ear next.”

  • 8 •

  “I am to wait for a reply,” Timofei announced.

  “Well, you won’t wait here,” the footman retorted, “snooping around, pocketing valuables. Kitchen for you, my lad. You can wash dishes while you wait, and I know how many silver spoons we got.”

  Tasha swallowed a grin and said, “Yes, sir.”

  Playing dress-up had always been a favorite winter pastime in the Temkin family, so she had no doubts that she could pass for a boy. The problem was remembering that this was real, that a mistake could bring huge trouble. She knew that, but even before Sophie had finished proposing the plan to her, she had known that it was the right thing to do. Lord Wassail was a wonderfully grandfatherly old boyar, very trustworthy. All the Chivians were trustworthy, Sophie had insisted—without, come to think of it, explaining how she knew that.

  It was true that Tasha might never see all her wonderful wedding presents again, but there would be jewels aplenty in Chivial. Her hair would grow back. Escape was more important—escape from the prison of High Town, from hateful Igor and even more horrible Fedor. Escape to a throne and a handsome, royal husband! Especially escape from Fedor. He hadn’t forgiven her for the apology yet; he still looked at her as if he were plot
ting evil.

  Of course no lady could go traipsing off across a continent without at least one female companion, and again Tasha had not hesitated. Olga was the only possible choice. It was not very long since they had played dress-up together, and she had the same slim, boyish figure as Tasha.

  Dark and smelly, the kitchen was a nasty yank back to reality. She stared in horror at the bucket. Wash dishes? She had no idea how to wash dishes.

  Fortunately, Timofei was rescued from the kitchen before his ineptitude aroused suspicion; he was led out to be tucked into a sled beside Lord Wassail. One of the swordsmen went on the front seat with the driver, two more sprang onto waiting horses, and off they all went—out through the gates into Great Market, with its gaudy awnings like flocks of parrots nesting in valleys between hillocks of snow, and on to the Foreigners’ Quarter. Having never been there before, Tasha-Timofei wanted to explore, but she was smuggled indoors and hustled away into a private room. The window was so caked with frost that she could see nothing and her new freedom was starting to feel suspiciously like imprisonment when the door opened to admit one of the Ambassador’s swordsmen, the burly one with the limp.

  He grinned shyly. “Been told to guard you, Your, um…Timofei. Mustn’t give you titles.”

  “By all means call me Timofei and I shall call you Oak!”

  “If we’re going to be realistic, Your, um…I mean, a boy like you would address me as ‘sir’ because I’m wearing a sword. In fact, you’d call almost any man that way.”

  “I don’t mind calling you ‘sir’ if you’ll stop calling me your um,” she said. “How many of us are going?”

  “Um…”

  “You’re doing it again!” Tasha snapped, just to see him blush.

  He didn’t. “Shuddup, boy!” He had a nice smile.

  “That’s better, sir.”

  “Not sure how many. You and another um?”