I would sink out of history and pursuit. Or so was my plan.
It was a lung-busting thirty yards to my goal. The cold clamped like a vise and burned like fire.
The already dim water darkened even further as I passed under the hull of my target ship. I kicked upward, feeling its slippery keel. There was a curve as it arched to the bow, meaning the current had carried me several yards downstream of where I’d aimed. I desperately breasted back toward the stern, just moments from drowning. My lungs clenched in protest. My vision narrowed. The chill was rusting my muscles.
But there, at last, was the black opening in the bottom of the hull.
The ship we’d chosen was a harbor maintenance vessel fitted with what sailors call a moon pool, a wooden well in its hold from which underwater obstacles could be winched, anchored, or driven, out of reach of bad weather and loose ice. The sides of the box were higher than the waterline, and a hatch kept the sloshing waves out when the ship was underway. Being beneath the main deck, the moon pool was shielded from view above.
I burst the thin ice of the river surface inside the dark lidded enclosure, almost shrieking from pain and cold. I was close to passing out.
My survival depended on Harry.
If my young son hadn’t become frightened from waiting too long as the day lightened, he should lift the lid we’d kept closed so as not to alert the night watchman.
But my escapade had taken longer than I’d hoped. Had Horus already run home? If I couldn’t get out of the moon pool in moments, I’d freeze and sink. Had he heard the shots and waited? Or fled in fear?
So I pounded on the wooden well’s sides, the signal to hoist the lid and lower a knotted rope to Papa.
No answer.
Mother Mary, I was frozen. I pounded again. “Harry!”
Nothing.
I was shaking uncontrollably now, teeth chattering, and every second of entrapment seemed a desperate hour. I’d surfaced from the river in the one place no one could see me, but it did little good if I was helpless as a crab in a trap.
I pounded once more, weakly this time. It was Czartoryski who’d first scouted the ship, using arrogance and a stolen hat to pose as a marine inspector. He reported back on the moon pool, its hatch, its watchman who made predictable rounds, the rope and pulley to raise it, and the feasibility of exiting the river that way. It would be my last resort, if chased.
But when we returned to make preparations, a guard had been posted on the ship’s top deck by a captain hostile to any regulation. Only my boy had been small enough to crawl down a mooring line and squeeze through the hawsehole that bound the ship to the pier, invading like an enterprising mouse. He was tiny enough to hide should any watchman come searching. He seemed, if not the best helper, the only one possible.
Unless he’d gone home as I’d told him. “If Papa doesn’t come when its full morning, you must crawl out sly as a fox and hurry back to Mama. We cannot have you caught.”
“When is it morning, Papa?”
“When the day gets bright.”
“But I’ll be inside.” The lad was as sharp as a tack.
“Watch the light through the hawsehole.”
I’d been more worried about him than me. But now I knew I should have entrusted the job to a bribed adult. Corrupt the watchman, say, or hire a desperate rogue who could somehow bully his way aboard. I’d hesitated to spend the money and would die a miser.
A final exhausted rap. My hair was crusted with ice. My boots were lead weights. The swords dragged to drown me. “Harry.” It was a croak.
And then, in a miracle equal to that of the light that fell on Saul over the road to Damascus, the hatch opened and a small head peered over.
“You’re late, Papa.”
“Harry,” I chattered, “the rope!”
He pitched it in. My last strength was spent dragging myself out of the pool, my boy helping as best he could. Water poured off, and bits of ice rattled on deck when I collapsed.
Harry pulled the swords free to lighten me. “They’re heavy!” The weapons clanked as they fell to the planks.
“Not too loud, son.” I gasped like a fish, water draining, my hands plucking chunks from my hair. I was shivering uncontrollably.
My five-year-old regarded me with concern. “Do you want a blanket? I found a sail.”
“Yes, thankee.” I shook like an epileptic. “I feared you gone.”
“No, I found a kitty. Do you want to pet it?”
A ship’s cat, for rats.
Fingers numb, I began to unbutton my wet coat, ice water still sluicing out. “The sail first. And then we’ll hide under it until any outside search is given up. Hide until nightfall if we have to. The days aren’t long.”
“You said go home by morning.”
“This is a new game.”
I could hear shouts outside as soldiers ran along the quay, studying the ice of the Neva on the unlikely chance I’d surface near shore.
I rolled myself in the tarp with the precious swords, wincing as thorns of warmth returned, the pump of blood as painful as shards of glass. Harry sat next to me with his hat and coat, but then took his mittens off and beckoned.
“Here, kitty,” he whispered.
CHAPTER 8
We’ve fallen into the volcano’s throat.
Our sleigh runners hiss like snakes as we flee St. Petersburg, dreams dashed, pursuit inevitable. Astiza is silent, clutching Harry to her side, her silence toward me an accusation. No, her quiet is shared guilt, because she brought word of the swords. Foul choice, or foul luck? If Von Bonin hadn’t spotted me at the fortress, all would still be well. But he’d inexplicably been there a day ahead of schedule. Now we hurtle into the wilderness of Eastern Europe, rootless and betrayed, our immediate hopes pinned to a fat, middle-aged, would-be-king in exile. We abandoned our apartment so quickly that it might as well have been on fire, ambition dashed, Gregor dead, us fugitives.
Our one mare isn’t enough. We need a full team.
When have I last slept? Night and day have merged into nightmare.
When the shouts of soldiers searching the ice for my corpse finally abated, I sent Harry crawling out the ship alone to tell Astiza I’d survived. Since I couldn’t fit the hawsehole, I waited until dark before creeping out on deck past the watchman and hurrying home. If Astiza’s pale, anxious face hadn’t told me what I needed to know, the presence of the Russian foreign minister in our parlor—Czartoryski disguised in the clothes of a workingman!—confirmed our plight. She’d sent word to plead for advice. He’d grimly come in person.
“The authorities have pronounced you dead and the swords lost, but it won’t be long before it occurs to the police to search your home,” he told us. “Your only hope of survival is to stay drowned by permanently disappearing. All is calamity, bad timing, and confusion, your theft played out in view of half the city. Von Bonin has already come to me in an accusatory panic, fearing that Berlin will blame him for loss of the swords. I told him you were a loose cannon whose shocking thievery I failed to anticipate. I speculated you’d have fled to Sweden had you survived, but that you obviously hadn’t. That river would freeze Satan. Don’t expect him to rely on my lies. He’ll hunt you.”
“And how did Von Bonin happen to come to the fortress at precisely the moment I was a target on the treasury roof?” I demanded.
“Someone betrayed us both.”
Czartoryski’s tone was bitter, but that didn’t mean I trusted him. My hours shivering in the ship’s hold had given me plenty of time to suspect everyone. Had the foreign minister tipped the Prussians to somehow win favor in his diplomatic games? There was no need to petition the tsar for my title if I was dead or caught. But there’d be no swords, either. I tested him. “At least the Grunwald trophies are recovered. You might as well take them.”
Adam’s reaction
was alarm. “And run the risk of their being discovered in my possession? Tsar Alexander would give them to the Prussians, I’d be implicated in the crime, and Poland’s hopes would be ruined. No, no, no, my American friend. You achieved the impossible by liberating the relics, but your task isn’t done. Now you must spirit them to my family estate of Pulawy, southeast of Warsaw. There my mother, Izabela, can hide them and you.”
“And if we’re caught along the way?”
“Elizabeth and I will deny involvement. Not out of betrayal, just commonsense. We can’t help you if we’re suspected too.”
“They’d execute us!” Astiza said.
“I’d ask for clemency, but yes. Or prison, or Siberia. I’d lose both you and the swords.” He studied our despair. “Listen, all this may actually work in our favor. You’d have eventually been a suspect since Astiza visited the treasury and suspicion would have dogged the promotion I won for you. I’d have had to entrust smuggling the swords to someone with less of a personal stake than their own lives. Now, Russia thinks you’re drowned and the weapons lost. Now, my mother Izabela can hide a man already believed dead. Slip out of the city, make for my estate, and be a hero when Poland rises.” He grasped me again. “You’re almost at the finish, Gage. Don’t give up.”
“How many miles?” My voice was hollow.
“A thousand. Perhaps less.” He threw the number out as if we were sleighing to the Peterhof, a couple leagues distant.
“You’re abandoning us,” Astiza accused.
“I’m saving you at Pulawy.” His voice was stern. “It’s too bad you were spotted but there it is. We’ve no time for recrimination, only for our next move. It’s a long journey, but you can seek help midway from the Bourbon exile at Jelgava. The Count of Provence, who hopes to become King Louis XVIII, has inquired about you.”
“Me? How has he heard of Ethan Gage?”
“You conspired against Bonaparte with the royalists in Paris two years ago, correct? And spied for the British?”
“Among others.” My resume is complicated.
“So you have natural allies as well as natural enemies. An American who knows Bonaparte intrigues the Count, and he and I keep in touch, just as I keep I touch with the Bonapartists. Napoleon reputedly tried to poison Louis, but failed. The royalists in turn tried to assassinate Napoleon, and failed as well. You’ve been inside both camps. Use your notoriety, Gage. Trade your insights for resupply. Don’t reveal the swords. Use everyone, but trust no one.”
I considered. Would-be Louis XVIII is the brother of the king who was beheaded in the French Revolution along with Marie Antoinette. This new Louis is a stateless fugitive, given refuge four hundred miles southwest of St. Petersburg. The French count hates all revolutionaries, I guessed, including American and Polish ones. But I could imply that our escape would aid the royalist cause. It was risky, but maybe we could get fresh horses.
“All can still end well,” Czartoryski insisted. “Your family will vanish. Napoleon will smash the Prussians and force Russia into peace, with a resurrected Poland as its guarantee. You’ll have helped make it happen! Get to Jelgava, persuade Louis to lend help, and get the Grunwald swords to my mother’s estate in Poland.”
“No title.” I know Americans aren’t supposed to hanker for such things, but life is damnably difficult as it is. Any leg up helps mount a horse.
“Not in Russia,” the foreign minister replied. “But Poland has an aristocracy as well. You’d be happier there than under the thumb of the tsar.” He looked at skeptical Astiza. “We won’t forget your courage and ingenuity, my lady—so long as you finish the quest. Here in the Russian capital you face nothing but enemies. At my family’s estate at Pulawy, you and your boy will find nothing but friends.” And with a quite unconvincing smile of encouragement, he departed as hurriedly as he’d come.
Astiza morosely began assembling traveling clothes. “Adam has put all the risk on us,” she said, “and it’s my fault. I succumbed to Elizabeth’s temptation, and now we’ve been expelled from paradise.”
“Our fault, love. And St. Petersburg is a very chilly Eden.” I bundled some food. “Let’s look on the bright side. We have the swords. Wretched luck the Prussians were there.”
“Not luck, but treachery. Or divine retribution. Now I have to uproot Horus again.”
“To a better place, maybe.” But we both doubted that.
What came next was bizarre horror. When I descended to the courtyard stable to hitch our mare to our sleigh, all was shadowy in the weak light of my lantern. The horse nickered as I lifted her harness from a peg on the wall, and she shifted uneasily.
“A midnight jaunt, Katrina,” I whispered to her.
Her ear twitched and her head jerked, swinging her mane.
Something glinted at the edge of my vision, and hers. A lifetime of bad experiences gave me just enough instinct to duck away as the air was cut like paper. An ax whooshed by my shoulder and bit into the rim of the open sleigh with a sharp crack, wedging tight. It was my servant, Gregor, grunting as he tried to wrench the weapon free. His eyes were wide with either fear or madness. With no time to figure out what was going on, I punched him in the throat, collapsing his windpipe. Then I kicked his crotch as hard as I could. The peasant sprawled on the icy cobbles, glaring.
I grabbed for the ax and attempted to twist the ax. Gregor seized a hunting knife from his belt and struggled up to stab me.
I couldn’t get the ax free.
Just as my servant lunged, however, there was a shot. Gregor jerked, his expression turning to shock, and then he coughed and fell as heavily as a sack of flour. One moment the tip of his blade had been six inches from my belly, and the next he was dead. A bullet had broken his back.
Someone darted out the gate of the courtyard and ran away hard.
Should I follow? I was in shock. First I was about to be assassinated by my own servant and then, even more unexpectedly, I was saved.
Was it Gregor who’d betrayed my timing to the Prussians? Why?
And who fired the fatal shot?
I freed the ax, peering fretfully about. No one else seemed to be lurking.
I’d just dragged the body into the shadows, a bloody stain as wide as a rug, when Astiza and Harry came down. I hurried to block the boy’s view. “Get him into the sleigh.”
“Ethan?” She spied the assailant’s boot tips in the dark, pointing upward and skewed like the hands of a clock. “What have you done?”
“Should have given him another ruble, maybe. But it wasn’t me that killed him.” I pushed the sleigh into the courtyard, Harry obediently sitting where he was told. “I’ll hitch the horse. I lost my rifle in the river, but now we have an ax.” I threw it in the sleigh.
Astiza climbed on from one side and I the other, taking the reins. Now we were really afraid. Was this some prelude to a wider attack? Would other bullets come out of the dark? With a crack of the whip we bolted onto Nevsky Prospect, the sleigh swerving as I turned hard to take a lane toward the southern gates. Every lit window seemed like a gigantic eye. Every passerby was a potential Prussian. The mare trotted briskly, a pedestrian shouting angrily when forced to jump aside.
“Where are we going?” Harry asked.
“To a big palace,” I evaded.
“Can Ivan come?”
“Maybe later,” Astiza lied.
We slipped through the city gates without challenge and accelerated into dark forest. St. Petersburg receded.
“I’d paid the man for silence,” I said after a while, as much to me as to her. “He attacked me with hate.”
“Von Bonin must have paid him more.”
“Who recommended Gregor to us?”
“I can’t remember. Czartoryski. Dolgoruki. The landlord. Suddenly he was just there.”
“And then someone shot him and ran. Who can we trust, Astiza?”
>
“Only ourselves. Always.”
So we flee the city. The stars are shards of ice, the snow gray in dim light, and the trees a palisade of black trunks and limbs that squeeze the highway like prison walls. No farmhouse lights shine at this late hour. I imagine wolves out there, both the actual animal and the wolf of eternal evil, stalking our happiness—the evil that Czartoryski warned about in his study.
We have a few days food, a leftover length of Cossack lariat, a brutal ax, and the old swords. Astiza is buried to her chin under furs, Harry asleep between us. The swords rest against her other hip. It’s too dark to see her expression, and that’s a blessing.
The night is vast, as if we’ve sleighed off the edge of the earth. Our horse’s breath is an icy cloud as I push her, and the runners scrape and rasp. The sleigh jolts and pitches from frozen ruts, but I dare not slow until we gain some distance.
“Von Bonin wasn’t due to visit the fort for another day,” I finally repeat.
“It’s possible he changed his plans.” Astiza’s skepticism undercuts her own sentence.
“He shouted that I was the meddling American.”
“That, at least, is true.”
“He shot and cried recognition from a hundred yards away, in pre-dawn murk with snow falling. How could he appear just then? Why did he look in my direction, when no one else in the fortress noticed? Gregor told him, Astiza, but Gregor didn’t know all my plans. So who else knew I’d be on that roof at dawn?”
“Adam has gotten his swords out of confinement while shedding his original promises to us and still keeping us in his service. Czartoryski knew he couldn’t really deliver a royal title to an American. Nobility is at the whim of a tsar who didn’t like you at Austerlitz. Yet Czartoryski needed your help. So he promised what he couldn’t give. Nor did Adam want to risk smuggling the swords out of St. Petersburg himself. Now he has no need to go the tsar on our behalf. No need to buy us a big house. Instead we’re forced to flee to his estate for refuge, delivering the swords when we do so.”
The Trojan Icon (Ethan Gage Adventures Book 8) Page 7