Coronets and Steel

by Sherwood Smith

  There’s no turning back.

  I closed the door behind me, jammed a fragile chair under the latch because it always seemed to work in the movies, then ran into the hallway and started down the second set of stairs. The wall sconces on this step were brilliant. The fourth step belonged to the staff and was mostly storage; it had its exits, but Tony had said that I could get out through the third, which was the main building, with the light and dark checkerboard marble floor.

  Male laughter echoed up from somewhere; behind me, the door latch rattled violently. Holding the blade at the ready, I ran down the next set of stairs, and the next after that . . . I was halfway down the following stair when back at the top level my victim slammed open the door of the dueling room and bellowed, “Hallo! Paolo! Yussef! The bitch is out.” His voice echoed, running the words together.

  I muttered, “A little farther, a little farther . . .” and leaped down several steps at a time.

  Directly below me, a man yelled in Russian, “No one down here!”

  I skidded around the bottom of the stairwell, trying to keep to the far side, and pounded down the hallway to the next “step.”

  Now I’d reached the biggest building in the castle, with the guest suites and function rooms and salons, and at least two grand ballrooms. Against you is a rather long run, Tony had said. For you is how far Reithermann’s sods have scattered, the fact that they still aren’t used to their pin mikes not working—and how long they’ve been drinking their victory.

  As I started down the first set of stairs of the top story, two men dashed out from the third story hallway below. Both caught themselves up short, staring at me. Too many above—no retreat. My heartbeat was as loud as a thrash metal band as I leaped down the rest of the stairs, swinging the sword. One man froze, and the other started sliding a hand into a bulky jacket.

  I whipped the rapier across the man’s wrist with a crack that dropped him to his knees. Then, as his partner lunged at me, I smacked both his hands away and stabbed him in his right arm. I leaped between them and ran.

  Next set of stairs. Noise and shouting echoed from the rooms above. As I rounded the landing corner I risked a glance upward—and almost stumbled in shock. Maria Sofia hovered at the top level, bright as day—

  “There she is!” someone shouted in French-accented English.

  Footsteps thundered along the upper hall and up the stairs to the sky suite, where the ghost had glowed.

  I shoved away from the balcony and vaulted down six steps. My teeth jarred as I bounced down, my sandals sliding on the smooth marble. If only Ruli had owned a pair of running shoes!

  The balustrades were elaborately carved now, with patterns of leaves and winged lions at the corners—I caught hold of the jutting wings of the lions to help propel me along. As I passed halls leading from the landings, I glanced down them. Everything was lit, and the halls seemed to be as long as those in giant hotels, though the mirrored insets in the archways confused the eye.

  I’d reached the halfway point when another pair of men dashed from a hallway with a vaulted ceiling. From above, footsteps clattered down the stairs. Gritting my teeth, I sliced the last man across his collarbone—he raised a length of pipe to hit me—I scored him across the forehead so blood ran into his eyes. He stumbled, howling curses and clutching at his face. I ducked around him, then ran at flat-out speed for the next flight of stairs. Two flights to go.

  Footsteps ahead.

  I stopped to scan, back to a pillar. Above: shouts, curses, the sounds of an altercation. And then another outburst of angry shouting and noise, this time from below. Cursing in several languages. Tony’s men were fighting Reithermann’s?

  I leaned out over the balustrade, peered up—and froze eye to eye with the dark gray metal of a shotgun barrel. It was leveled across the balustrade up one flight, pointing straight at me.

  Then, floating humorously from farther above, came Tony’s voice. “Surely, Stefanos, you can manage to stop a girl without splattering her brains all over the walls?”

  The man’s head jerked skyward—Tony leaned on the balcony two stories up. Footsteps behind—I whipped around to the other side of the pillar as another pair of men topped a grand stairway.

  One brandished a fireplace poker, the other a wooden cudgel. The landing was a vast polished space with several sets of high doors set in exquisitely painted walls, with fanciful flourishes above each, centering around a gleaming gilt coronet: I’d reached the ballrooms.

  A shout echoed up and down the airy, echoing stairwell, “She’s got a blade!”

  The guy with the poker loomed up, feet planted well apart. He wore paramilitary cammies.

  “Drop it, bitch.” His accent was flat Midwestern American.

  I kept my focus on the poker, and let my peripheral vision take care of the other guy, who was slowly edging to one side.

  The poker arced toward my blade, the casual swing; the guy’s grin made it clear he expected me either to squeal and drop my sword, or he’d knock it out of my hand. I lifted my point enough so that the poker swung under it, and then as the second guy tensed to make a lunge I flashed the rapier horizontally and scored the point low across his forehead. He jumped back, cursing as blood ran into his eyes; the cudgel clattered to the marble floor. The first man swung the poker at my head, this time with grunting, murderous intent. I whipped my blade up in a block. The poker smashed into the rapier guard, sending a painful shock up my arm.

  He swung around and jabbed at me.

  I can do this.

  “Hah!” I parried, then feinted toward his face.

  I shifted my weight as the second fellow rushed me, arms out to envelop me in a bear hug. Stepping aside to keep him between me and Poker Guy, I whirled my point to his shoulder and let his momentum decide the depth of the thrust. He staggered, twisted away, hand clasped to the wound.

  Poker Guy used all the weight of his body to try for a home run on my skull. I braced myself, and wha-a-a-a-ang! The poker glanced off the rapier guard and whooshed a couple inches over my head.

  Ridiculously exhilarated, I snapped the blade under his arm and stabbed him in the shoulder . . . and couldn’t resist quoting breathlessly, “As I parry the best lunge of all—”

  He bellowed a curse, slapped the poker into his other hand, and swung at me again.

  “—I thrust as I end the refrain!”

  I zapped his other shoulder. The poker fell ringing to the marble—he threw himself at me—I leaped aside and pinked him hard in the knee. He shouted in pain as I yanked the blade free.

  I ran past and leaped down the grand stairway.

  A pistol cracked somewhere overhead, the shot smacking echoes off the stone. The angry voices increased.

  One . . . more . . . stair—

  I reached the landing so fast I bounced into a column, then whirled around. They were coming at me from both sides, slow and wary. From the sounds, more on down the stairs—and a party hustling up from the service level below.

  To my left, several carved doors. These had to be the salons and anterooms to the big public chambers. Trying the doors one at a time with frantic fingers, I found one open, flung myself in, and slammed it shut behind me. High on the door was a brass latch, and I flicked it into lock position a bare two seconds before hands started rattling the door handle.

  Bodies crashed against the heavy door; men cursed and bellowed. A louder voice than the rest roared in French, “Open this door!”

  “Yeah, right.” Dashing across the opulent sitting room, I wondered what the electric bill in this place would be with every one of the bazillion rooms lit. I got a swift impression of cherubic frescos and Directoire furniture, then I reached the nearest of two huge windows. Yanking one open, I found a balcony outside, and I stumbled out.

  I was one story above the gardens, but it was a thirty foot story. I leaned over the edge of the balcony and peered down into the darkness below. I couldn’t jump it. Not when I could not see the ground.r />
  “Bloody hell,” someone shouted in English. “What is that?”

  More shouts, then someone else yelled in Russian, “It went through the wall!”

  You guys seeing ghosts, too? Guess I’m not so special after all.

  I leaned farther as the door began splintering. If I could spot a patch of grass, a pond even! All I saw was a jumble of dark greenery, a few branches side-lit from adjacent windows—and a rose trellis.

  Tucking the sword under my arm, I climbed hastily over the balcony, a hand reaching to catch hold of the latticework.

  Rose thorns caught at my clothes and hands, but I scarcely noticed. The sweet scent of crushed blooms was heavy on the cool air as I fought my way down.

  I had made it about three-quarters of the way down when another pistol shot banged loudly from behind the windows several rooms away. The shots did not sound like they do on TV; there was a loud report and sharp cracks and pops. Then shouts, more cracks and pops and crashes from higher up in the castle: the fight was spreading.

  One foot tangled in the thick vines. I kicked free, and jumped.

  I landed hard on soggy cool grass, fell on my forearm, and scrambled up. I didn’t realize I’d lost my clip until my hair rolled down my back. I glanced around, but there was no chance of finding the clip in that darkness. So much for pretending to be Ruli.

  Yellow light gleamed palely on the blade of the rapier a few feet away. As I grabbed it, a window above me crashed, glass tinkling on the marble as a man shouted, “The garden! Comb the garden! The bitch is loose, and armed! Find her.”

  The voice was loud, harsh, angry. My stomach knotted as I crouched and ran away from the windows into the woods—where I nearly crashed into a still figure. I jolted to a stop, blade out, then realized the figure wasn’t moving.

  The golden glow from the million castle windows sharply highlighted the contours of a statue, the details so fine it seemed real. The statue was a man in elegant late-nineteenth-century evening dress, one hand out, the other raised as if to block a blow from overhead.

  I ducked around it and ran full out.

  The wall. Where was the wall?

  A pale face loomed at me—this time a living man, breathing hard. I recoiled, then slashed at him with the rapier. It laid his cheek open. He shouted and spun away as a cudgel sliced the air a few centimeters from my own face. I blocked, thrust, blocked, punctured the guy’s wrist, then plunged past, the sharp tang of pine stinging my nose as I broke through small branches.

  The trees cleared ahead, circling another of those statues, its outline medieval, weather-blurred, and mossy. I caught its bony wrist—carved so realistically—to propel myself around, then ran crazily, leaping over low shrubbery. The thud of feet on both sides bolted fire down my back and gave me the strength for faster speed.

  I’m not going to make it . . .

  My breath burned the back of my throat but I pushed myself faster as footsteps pounded closer.

  I nearly stumbled. Glanced down: herbal border. I leaped over.

  Beyond another pair of those odd statues I spotted the wall, about a hundred yards away. Eighty. Fifty. Thirty . . .

  Five runners reached it when I had maybe twenty feet to go, and whipped round to face me, spreading out at the ready.

  “Back off,” I yelled, waving my blade in a circle. “Back off!”

  “Halt! Right there,” someone ordered in Dobreni.

  A man planted himself squarely in my path, his hands at chin-height, leveling something dark. It was the handsome guy with the curly hair from the palace, and he was pointing a pistol at me.

  A distance of maybe ten, twelve feet lay between us as the others closed in slowly behind.

  “Stop,” he said to me, closing both hands around the pistol. “Drop it.”

  I closed my eyes briefly. I have to try.

  I lunged at him, the sword whistling in a downward stroke.

  Flash!

  I don’t remember any sound. I was flat on the grass, the quiet stars overhead blocked by a football huddle of faces, the dark, pitted eyes of one of those statues beyond.

  Okay, this is weird. If they’d only let me lie here a minute, I could get hold of my thoughts. But I was being carried by hard hands at a jolting gait, voices around me talking too fast to follow. Light burned, vivid yellow and painfully glaring. I squeezed my eyes shut and tried to turn my head away. Why are they jabbing a red hot nail into my shoulder?

  I wanted to say “Lay off,” but my lips felt rubbery and numb.

  A rasping man’s voice echoed weirdly “. . . find the sister! Now! And you’d better . . .”

  I dropped with a splat. It knocked my breath out.

  It also doused the lights.

  THIRTY-FIVE

  I MUST HAVE FADED completely out of consciousness and then in again, because when I opened my eyes there was Tony’s face.

  He smiled ruefully. “Here. Take a sip.”

  “I saw ghosts.” My voice came out like a frog’s croak.

  “They do appear to be interested.” He pressed something pungent smelling to my lips.

  Obediently I sipped, swallowed, and gasped as a pleasant warmth eased its way down into my numb, cold body and up into my foggy head.

  I gasped again, then said, “You know about the ghosts?”

  “Castle’s full of ’em. Never seen so many at once, though. Something’s got ’em stirred.”

  “But you told me. You don’t believe. In magic.”

  “Ghosts have nothing to do with magic. Drink a bit more. It will help for a time.”

  I swallowed again, and the gray murk behind Tony resolved into a brightly lit chamber. Yellow light gleamed in Tony’s pale hair and glittered in his black eyes. Beyond him was a wall with floor to ceiling bookshelves filled with leather-bound tomes. An oval portrait hung on another wall in a gold frame, a woman with powdered hair dressed high. Her hands were posed gracefully . . . the image blurred, was she real? . . .

  “Big sip,” Tony encouraged.

  I swallowed, gasped, and once again my head cleared. “Vampires.”

  Tony’s brows twitched upward. “Don’t tell me they spoke to you. I hope not,” he added.

  I tried to struggle up, but I couldn’t move—and the effort hurt. “They’re real? You’ve seen one? Up close and personal?” It took a few breaths to get that out.

  His long fingers lifted in a sign too brief to catch. “I don’t recommend the experience.”

  “I’m dreaming,” I muttered. “That’s it. I’m dreaming. Except. I thought you don’t. Feel pain. In dreams.”

  “Save your strength,” he murmured, almost too low to hear, sending a meditative glance somewhere up behind me.

  I was still struggling to figure out why I couldn’t move, what had happened. I glared at my hair lying in waves across the front of my black shirt. When did my hair get loose? Wasn’t I supposed to be Ruli? Beyond my shirt, my legs stretched out, feeling about ninety feet long . . . And they were tied together at the ankles with something silky.

  Alarm pushed back more of the fog. I was propped up on a couch against a wall of embroidered pillows. One shoulder was tightly wrapped by cloth, though it throbbed with glowing insistence. But I couldn’t touch my shoulder because . . . because my hands were squashed into the pillows behind me, uncomfortably squashed there.

  I couldn’t move them—somebody had tied my wrists together, and then put me on this Directoire recliner.

  And that throbbing in my shoulder, oh yeah, that guy with the pistol, and then the flash—

  I’m tied up, and someone shot me!

  As Bertie Wooster says, I was definitely knee-deep in the mulligatawny.

  Tony sat on a piano stool next to me, forearms propped on his knees, hands clasped loosely as he studied my face. His attitude was one of waiting. For comprehension?

  I licked my dry lips. “I saw the wall. Not bad, eh?”

  Relief relaxed his features slightly. “Here, have another.”
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  “Zhoumnyar?” My voice was hoarse, but otherwise sounded okay.

  “Yes. Fire grade.” He smiled.

  I tried to nod, and wriggled as a stray lock of my hair pulled under my elbow. I grimaced, but once again after swallowing more of the liquor some of the sickening coldness receded.

  “Better?”

  “So to speak. I have to be dreaming. I mean, vampires? Ruli had Buffy up there—oh, I get it, you’re scamming me. Right. Got it.”

  “No. They’re real enough.” Tony brushed an errant lock of hair off my clammy brow. “Ruli likes Buffy because it’s funny. And the vampires are so easy to kill. Quite cheering.”

  “So tell me about your vampires. Are they sexy?”

  Tony gave me a look of disgust. “Some say my tastes are too undiscriminating, but I stop at carrion-reeking, fungus-cold walking corpses.”

  I began to laugh but it hurt too much. “They really stink?” I whispered.

  “Yes. Unless you permit them to glamour you into liking the reek of old blood. We’ve a tenuous truce at the moment, the vampires and my folk, but no one sane seeks them out. They scare the shit out of me, if you want the truth. I bound up your shoulder as best I could. It should hold until we can get someone up here to tend it.”

  “Okay,” I said, and shifted again, trying to find a comfortable position. But there was no comfortable position. “Why the ropes? I’ve never been into bondage, and I don’t think I’m up to climbing walls.”

  Before Tony could answer, that raspy voice interrupted from somewhere behind me, with a flat American accent, “It’s on my orders. Because if we have any more trouble with you I’m going to blow your head off.”

  Tony glanced up; from the direction of his reflective gaze I could tell that Reithermann was standing some ten or fifteen feet beyond where I lay. I also saw (for the briefest of instants but it was definitely there) that Tony was angry.

  Clarity was slow in coming, but it was coming. “Something happened,” I said.

  Tony set the cup somewhere beyond my shoulder. “Alec seems to have objected to Maman’s attempt to alter the disposition of affairs.” He twiddled his fingers. “He and his brass-buttoned yobs stormed the gate at the same time you were making your tour of the family home.”