A Company of Heroes Book Two: The Fabulist (7 page)

CHAPTER FIVE

THE VILLAINS LEND A HAND

“I
knew
it was that little bitch!”

“Who?”

“Your damned sister, who else?”

“Now see here, Payne, you’re going a little too far when you speak of a member of the royal family that way. She is, after all, the king’s sister!”

“You helped conspire to murder her and you reprimand
me
for calling her a rude name?”

“That’s entirely different!”

“Well, I apologize. She’s not so little and I’m sorry she’s a bitch.”

“That’s better.”

“I’m so pleased you think so. You
do
realize that Bronwyn is trying to destroy us?”

“Destroy us? How? Why would she want to do that?”

“I don’t know. It seems pointless at this stage, but she must be planning something. I don’t trust her at all.”

“Well, what did Lord Bugarach have to say? It is supposed to have been his job to find out, wasn’t it?”

“They’re all in Toth, all four of them: that monster Thud Mollockle, whoever this Gyven is, Baron Milnikov and the princess. And if I don’t trust her, I certainly can’t trust the baron. Sneakiest character I’ve ever run across. Have you ever read any of his books?”

“Books?”

“Never mind. I don’t like any of this at all. Who’s this Thud creature, anyway? For thirty years he’s an utterly harmless half-witted stonecutter, then, suddenly, for no apparent reason, he goes off with a princess, murders Guards left and right, escapes from prisons like a ghost, travels all over the damned countryside with her . . . and is still with her in Toth!”

“Good heavens! It’s amazing that you’d mention it.”

“What?”

“I’ve been thinking about it and, you know, I don’t recall the last time I read a book. Isn’t that odd?”

“Do you know what the word ‘microcephalic’ means?”

“Haven’t the foggiest.”

“It occurs to me every time I speak to you.”

“Oh, really? Well, thank you, Payne.”

“And even stranger than this Mollockle,” continues Payne, “is this Gyven creature. Where did
he
come from? He worries me. Physically he’s practically god-like, but mentally . . . at first I thought your sister is collecting village idiots. I is wrong there. His head might have been empty but its capacity is frighteningly enormous. I wouldn’t be the least bit surprised to learn that he masterminded everything that happened on the night of your coronation.”

“Isn’t this beautiful?”

“What?”

“This.”

“What the hell is that?”

“It’s a wax string bean. It’s a genuine masterpiece. Sundarbans himself did it, you know, more than two hundred years ago.”

“Oh, really? I should have recognized it immediately.”

“Well, that’s true. You should take more interest in the arts, Payne. You’d be a lot less cross.”

There are five taps at the door, as mechanically spaced as the ticks of a clock.

“That must be General Praxx. Enter!” Roelt gives the order without waiting for the king’s permission. Praxx drifts soundlessly into the apartment.

“Good afternoon, your Highness, Lord Roelt.”

“Sit down, Praxx: we’ve got a problem.”

The general bends at two perfect right angles and drops smartly into the chair behind him. “Yes?” he says.

“We’ve got to do something about Bronwyn.”

“Yes. I’ve been giving that some thought.”

“Good. I is hoping you had. Felix has never had any real affection for Ferenc, the king . . .”

“That’s not true!” interrupts Ferenc, “he started my collection! When I was five years old, he gives me my first wax fruit, an apple. It’s the centerpiece of the exhibition. Would he’ve done that for someone he didn’t like?”

“He obviously thinks of you as a son. Look here, Praxx, Felix is powerful, a great deal more powerful than you and I, and he has his neighboring states as allies. We’ve been isolationists for so many centuries that there’s not a nation on the planet who would lift a finger to help us if Felix decided to interfere with our affairs.”

“True.”

“However, he won’t do anything unless given an impelling reason to do so. We’re no threat to him as things now stand. Nevertheless, Bronwyn and her gang could easily incite him into doing something rash. The old fool has always been partial to the girl and lately has been outspoken in criticizing the prince’s regime. He’s half dotty and might do anything she asks.”

With seeming irrelevancy, Praxx says, “Did you know that Baron Milnikov has a daughter?”

“What?” replies Payne, irritably, tired of non sequitors.

“A daughter.”

“I heard what you said. What does it have to do with anything?”

“The baron, while ostensibly a bachelor, had and has mistresses in virtually every city in the northern hemisphere. However, there is always one woman he invariably returned to. While he flaunted the others, this woman he protected. Not many ever saw her. He maintained a house for her in this city, though few knew of their relationship. Her name doesn’t matter now, she’s been dead half a dozen years. What
does
matter is that they had a daughter, the only child the baron ever recognized as his own, though he must’ve had dozens to choose from. She’s twelve years old and still lives with the old housekeeper who’d acted as her nanny while her mother is alive. The baron spends as much time with her as possible and, although he’s as secretive and protective of her as he is of her mother, it wasn’t terribly difficult to learn the details of the situation.”

“You’re absolutely microcephalic!” beams the king.

“What
?”
says Praxx, startled out of his concentration.

“Never mind him, go on.”

“Hm. Although the baron is an immensely rich man . . . or was, I should perhaps say,” the general amended, glancing at Roelt, “his most valuable possession is this child.”

“And?”

“Should he lose her, he would do anything to get her back.”

“Anything, eh?”

“Yes.”

“That does give one something to ponder.”

“It does indeed.”

“Can I leave you to continue the pondering to its logical end?”

“Of course.”

“You’re leaving now, General?” asks the king.

“Yes.”

“Then take this,” he says, handing Praxx a sealed envelope.

“What is this?”

“It’s a surprise. You’re not to open it until the day after tomorrow.”

“Why?”

“You’ll see.”

“Yes, your Highness.”

Praxx stuffs the envelope in his breast pocket and leaves the room as soundlessly as he had entered.

As he makes his way along the labyrinthine corridors that lead to his office, he obeys Roelt’s order and pondered. For the first time he has a mission worthy enough to redeem the terrible errors of the previous month. Typical of Roelt, he has not given the general any specific orders, nor has he overtly condoned any actions. All the responsibility of failure would be on Praxx’s shoulders. But so would all the advantages of success.

When he reaches his office, he removes his uniform coat and is about to hang it neatly in his wardrobe when he feels something crackle inside it. It is the envelope, he discovers, that the king had handed him.
What in the world?
Not withstanding the king’s injunction, he tore the envelope open without compunction. He read the enclosed card with some consternation. It is merely an invitation to the grand opening of the king’s wax fruit exhibition. These, he knew, are scarce and limited only to a few hundred of the king’s closest friends and the hierarchy of society, and he belonged to neither class. Why in the world would the king give him such an invitation?

It is some minutes before the significance of Ferenc’s order not to open the envelope for two days occurs to him. The day after tomorrow would be his birthday.

If the old woman and the child had thought that they had seen the end of the reign of terror that had swept through the baronage like a plague, they are given every reason to regret that sanguine and unrealistic hope. A cold dawn is shattered as easily as the front door of their modest home. Like a whirlwind, a patrol of black-uniformed Guards sweeps through the house, picks up the young girl like a dried leaf, and whirls away, leaving behind little more than an echo of a stifled shriek, a scream for mercy and the thunder of their passage.

The terrified girl knows nothing of who has abducted her, though her suspicions are accurate enough. All of her class have lived in terror of the coming of the Guards. She is fully aware of the importance of her father and the precarious position in which his fame placed her. She knows that she and Kinchen, the old nanny, have been living
in cognito
. . . and that their lives depended upon keeping secret their connection with Baron Milnikov. Therefore, though she can see nothing of who has taken her, nor of where she is going, since she has been stuffed blindfolded and bound into a canvas sack, she has her own ideas.

It is no great surprise, then, that the first face she sees when her eyes are uncovered is that of Major-General Jaegar Praxx, as smooth and poreless as a ball bearing.

“Welcome, my dear,” he says with a warmth that is as obviously unpracticed as it is unconvincing.

“You’re going to be sorry you did this,” she says with a bravado that is not completely undone by her tears and quivering lower lip. “My father will . . .”

“
What
will your father do?”

“Nothing,” she answers weakly, realizing the mistake she has made.

“What’s your name, my dear?”

“None of your business!”

“It’s Tholance, isn’t it?”

“If you knew what my name was, why’d you ask?”

“I is just trying to start a conversation. There’s no reason we can’t be friendly, is there?”

“You don’t think so?”

“No, of course not!”

“Then you’re weirder than you look.”

“Would you like me to give you an excellent reason to dislike me?”

The girl is bright and quick enough to recognize a threat when she hears one and doesn’t reply.

“I merely want you to do something for me.”

“What?”

“I want you to write a letter to your father.”

“I’m . . . I’m an orphan. I don’t know who my father is.”

“Come, come. You know you’re not fooling me. If I didn’t know who your father was, why else would I bring you here?”

“How would I know? Maybe you’re a pervert.”

To Praxx, who is totally asexual, this is a painful blow.

“Your father,” he says more harshly, “is the Baron Sluys Milnikov . . .”

“Who?”

“ . . . and I want you to write a letter telling him . . .”

“Who?”

“ . . . that you’ll die if he doesn’t do what I tell him.”

Tholance has no reply to this. She silently bites her lip. The man in front of her is so machine-like that she thinks he might kill her himself in some automatic, impersonal way; perhaps bullets would shoot from his eyes, or his mouth would open wide to reveal a double row of stainless steel teeth, like a bear trap.

“What do you want me to do?”

“Nothing very difficult. Just a simple letter to the baron instructing him to do exactly as I say or his daughter will die. That’s all.”

“Are you going to hurt him?”

“Not at all! I’ve nothing against your father. He’s inadvertently helped some traitors to escape from the country. It wasn’t his fault. I need his help in getting them back. If he cooperates, no harm will come to either of you. That’s all.”

“You promise?”

“Trust me.”

* * * * *

“Have you had any news from Toth?” asks Payne Roelt. Some time has passed since their last meeting. This time they are enjoying the absence of the king, who has become increasingly engrossed in the forthcoming exhibition, as intended. They are sharing a little wine, confiscated from some baron’s renowned cellar.

“Oh, yes,” replies General Praxx, “I received a reply even faster than I expected. But then, there is some considerable incentive.”

“Incentive?”

“I had no expectation that the baron would turn on his precious princess on the basis of a letter that could easily have been a lie or forgery.”

“That’s true. What did you do, then, to convince him of its genuineness?”

Before replying, the general takes a miniscule sip that barely disturbs the surface of his wine. “I included some proof that did indeed prove to be effective in convincing the baron of the serious nature of the threat to his beloved child.”

“And that was?”

“Her left hand.”

“You’re appalling, Praxx! Here, let me pour you a little more wine.”

“Thank you. This is excellent,” he says, then continued. “The situation
is
a desperate one, sir.”

“I meant no criticism, General. I take it that the action is absolutely necessary?”

“Certainly. I would’ve merely sent the girl’s ring, but there might’ve been many ways we could’ve come into its possession. And the hand by itself had no guarantee of being recognized by itself. The two together, however, I felt would be compelling.”

“Milnikov will do as we instruct, eh?”

“Absolutely. A note appended to his daughter’s letter informed him in no uncertain terms that he could expect a small package every week until we received his unconditional guarantee.”

“Brilliant. I commend you.”

“Thank you, sir. May I have one more of those biscuits? What are your first orders for the baron, sir?”

“Please, help yourself. I think, at the moment, nothing more than preventing, at any cost, Bronwyn from leaving Toth. But he’s not to do anything to compromise his present position of trust with her. If she suspects that he’s turned against her, she’ll find some way to avoid or elude him and we’ll be back where we started.”

“Excellent. I’ll have the order sent at once.”

“Now there is one other problem.”

“What is that?”

“I’ve intercepted this latest letter from Felix to Ferenc. The old dodderer is becoming stubborn. If he means what he says, he has no intention of surrendering her to us.”

“Doesn’t that amount to what we want anyway?”

“Yes and no. Keeping her quarantined in Toth checks her actions, but I only intend that to be a temporary measure. I don’t want to lose sight of her again, ever. On the other hand, while in Toth her influence on Felix will be powerfully persuasive. I must not only check, but mate.”