Masks and Shadows (36 page)

He lunged forward. Von Born's sword deflected the blow. The singer, Pichler, hovered far in the background. Panic thundered through Friedrich's brain.

“Are you going to help me or not, von Höllner?” Anton panted, as he fought.

“In case you're curious, Brother,” von Born added, circling the younger man, “that letter of yours is still stored with our brethren in Vienna. And if anything should happen to me . . .”

Anton glanced around, eyes widening. “Letter?”

He'd only looked away a moment, but his feet slipped. He stumbled.

Von Born's sword flashed out. Blood blossomed on Anton's hand. The sword fell from his hands. He jumped back.

“Von Höllner!”

“I can't,” Friedrich whispered. “I wish—”

Anton leapt forward, toward his fallen sword. Von Born's sword halted him, sweeping out to press lightly against his chest.

Anton backed away, eyes wide. “Friedrich?”

“Yes, Brother Friedrich, now is definitely the moment for action.” Von Born smiled thinly as he advanced, holding the tip of the blade lightly pressed against Anton's chest. “Take the lieutenant's hands, please.”

Friedrich stood up slowly. His whole body was shivering. “I can't do that!”

“No? Then you will be tortured in the Empress's prisons. First they'll whip you, then they'll stretch you on the rack, press burning coals against your balls, break your fingers one by one—”

“No!” Tears formed in Friedrich's eyes. “I'm no commoner! They can't—”

“In matters of treason, the torturer makes no distinction.”

Anton stared at Friedrich. “What the devil is he talking about?”

“Take his hands, Brother Friedrich. Now!”

Friedrich stumbled forward. He couldn't bring himself to look at Anton's face.

“I made a mistake,” he mumbled.

“A very useful mistake,” said von Born. “Now hold his hands behind his back.”

Anton's fingers clenched around Friedrich's. Nausea boiled up Friedrich's throat.

“Friedrich—?” Anton's voice spiraled toward panic. “Friedrich, damn it, don't let him—”

“It's all right,” Friedrich said hastily. “We'll just hide you somewhere, so you can't tell anyone. I'm sure it'll only be for a day or two; it won't be so bad, it's just—”

Von Born's sword stabbed straight through Anton's chest.

Anton's body convulsed.

Screams—so much screaming—Friedrich couldn't stop screaming. Blood—Anton's hands clutching his, and then—his voice, choking on his own blood, bubbling, frothing—

Friedrich fell to the ground and retched violently, over and over again.

Everything was red fog around him. He couldn't see Anton's body on the ground nearby. He couldn't see anything. Could barely hear anything.

Only one voice briefly pierced the fog.

“Hide him somewhere?” von Born said pityingly. “Oh, Brother Friedrich. You have so much to learn.”

Chapter Twenty-Six

They dragged the body together, under von Born's direction. Von Höllner was sobbing, tears streaming down his face as he stumbled along, holding Lieutenant Esterházy's feet. Could he see the dead man's eyes staring back at him through the darkness? Franz didn't ask. Esterházy's hands were still warm in his as he dragged the body backward. The smell of blood was overpowering. His feet moved, following von Born's orders. His mind floated high above him, where it wouldn't have to think about what he was doing.

“Stop,” von Born's voice rapped out. “Set him down.”

Franz lowered the lieutenant's heavy body to the ground, wincing with the effort. They stood in the clearing before the Bagatelle. The tall building loomed over them in the darkness. Atop its curving roof, the seated Chinese figure gazed down at them impassively.

This couldn't be real, Franz thought desperately. This was only like acting in an opera. It should have been an opera, really. In tragic operas, people were stabbed and fell over all the time, only to sing their dying arias and rise up again afterward to take a bow. If there was blood, it was only stage blood. Nothing like this finality. This . . .

“Hurry up,” von Born snapped. “Help me draw in the symbol!”

Franz turned and followed him mechanically.

“You'll need Brother Friedrich's sword, Herr Pichler. Take it.”

Lieutenant von Höllner was still standing at his friend's booted feet, staring down. Streaks of his own vomit clung to his shirt front. Franz approached him hesitantly.

“Ah—the sword?”

Von Höllner fiddled with his sword belt, and it fell to the ground. He didn't look away from Esterházy's limp body even when Franz knelt before him to detach the blade from its sheath.

Franz had never held a real sword before. It felt strange and unwieldy in his hands as he stood up.

“What do you want me to do?” he asked von Born.

“We need to carve one side of a pyramid in the grass around him. Come, we'll make this the peak.” Von Born drew his own blade and beckoned Franz to join him by Esterházy's head.

Franz's borrowed sword dug through the dirt, between shoots of grass. He couldn't even see the lines he drew, but von Born grunted approval.

Von Höllner spoke abruptly. “What are we going to tell everyone?”

“Tell? We shan't tell anyone anything, of course.” Von Born's blade turned a sharp angle around the lieutenant's feet. “Make haste, Herr Pichler.”

“Not tell anyone?” Von Höllner shook his head. “But . . . the Prince's own cousin! He'll look everywhere! Interrogate everyone!”

“Only once he realizes that Lieutenant Esterházy is truly missing—which certainly won't be for at least two more days. Plenty of time for us.”

“And then?”

“Then, Brother Friedrich, you will say,
if
questioned, that he told you he was thinking of making a short trip to Kismarton.”

“Why?”

“Say he was planning some surprise for his cousin, if you must. Say anything—or, better yet, say nothing at all. You don't know why he left or what he meant to do there. He kept it a secret from you, as well.”

“Oh.” Von Höllner nodded and seemed to lose interest. He turned his gaze back to Lieutenant Esterházy's body.

Franz swallowed. Perhaps von Höllner was too shocked, still, to see the implications of this plan—but Franz was not. Von Born's plan would immediately render Lieutenant von Höllner everyone's first suspect, as soon as any questions were asked.

“. . . And close the side of the pyramid here, Herr Pichler. Yes. Very good.”

The two blades touched at the center of the pyramid's base, closing the three points into a triangle. A jolt of tingling energy ran up Franz's arm. He looked up. Von Born smiled at him.

“And now we begin. One at each point. Brother Friedrich!”

Von Höllner jerked. “What?”

“Step outside the pyramid now, please, and stand just
there
. Yes.” Von Born pointed to the spot just outside the peak of the pyramid's side and waited for the lieutenant to step into it. “Raise your arms, both of you.”

Franz raised his arms. A hot wind swept against his face, emanating from the center of the triangle. He flinched.

“I don't—”

“Repeat after me: ‘We summon you through our bond of fellowship.'”

“We summon you . . .” Franz mumbled the words, trying not to listen to the voice of warning that was screaming in the back of his head:
Get out, get out, get out!

“We summon you through the rites of atonement.”

“We summon you . . .”

Franz watched von Höllner's mouth shape the words. Was the man even aware of what he said?

“We summon you to our company. Now!”

Sheets of flame shot up along the borders of the pyramid. Franz staggered back. The roar and crackle of fire filled his ears.

“You're perfectly safe, Herr Pichler,” von Born called to him, over the noise. “The lines of the pyramid cannot be broken while at least two guardians stand at its points.” He smiled. “And now, the final invocation: ‘We invite the flames to fill us!'”

“We invite the flames to fill us,” Franz whispered.

Fire swept from the lines of the pyramid into its center—and sizzled as it enveloped Esterházy's body. Heat bathed Franz's face. It smelled of burning meat.

Oh, God . . .
Franz's gorge rose in his throat.

Von Höllner was screaming again, but this time, the sound was cracked and helpless. He fell to his knees. Reflected flames lit his face, a rictus of horror.

No more
, Franz thought.
Please, God, no more. Let me wake up . . .

The living lieutenant lunged forward, toward the fire. He fell back as if he'd hit a wall.

“You cannot step inside, Brother Friedrich,” von Born called. “It's too late. In a moment we will dismiss these flames back to their proper sphere, and the remains of Lieutenant Esterházy's body will be taken back with them.”

Franz found his voice. “And you don't think anyone will wonder why there's a great triangle burned into the ground out here?”

Von Born turned his hard gaze onto him. “They may well wonder, but they will not
know
—and the Prince will be anything but anxious to parade domestic worries in front of his imperial guests.
Particularly
tomorrow, the day of their gala celebrations. And, for us, nothing after tomorrow matters.” His mouth curved in a tight smile. “So, gentlemen, let us finish this now, and free the two of you to sleep and prepare yourselves. You both have important parts to play in tomorrow night's performance.” His voice sharpened. “Raise your arms!”

Franz raised his arms. Even Lieutenant von Höllner, still moaning, raised his shaking arms. Franz looked into the fire, at the burning husk trapped at its center, and his voice came out as a croak.

“Where . . .” He stopped and licked his dry lips. “Where are we sending it all back to, exactly?”

“Where?” Von Born's eyes burned with reflected flames. “Why, to Hell, Herr Pichler,” he said. “Where else?”

Chapter Twenty-Seven

“It's all wrong!” Herr Haydn paced up and down the stage. “The balance is wrong. The timing is wrong. I'm even hearing wrong notes!” He wheeled around to glare at the collected singers, his normally mild face bright red. “Ladies—gentlemen—have you forgotten for whom we are performing tonight?”

Not likely
, Anna thought, as she stifled a yawn. Rehearsal had begun a full two hours earlier than usual this morning. When had six o'clock become so
early
?

“We perform for the Empress and the Emperor of the Holy Roman Empire: the Queen herself and her co-regent of all the Habsburg lands. They come to hear us tonight with an Archduke and our own Prince and Princess. Reviews of tonight's performance will be published across the Empire. And
everything must be perfect
!” He clutched the wide lapels of his jacket and stared at them entreatingly. “Don't you understand?”

Anna nodded limply, swallowing her yawns, as his wild gaze passed over her.
Perfect
, she thought, and stiffened her shoulders.
Be perfect!

Herr Haydn sighed. “We'll begin again at the Act One Finale. Chorus first!”

Anna took her place, waiting in the wings to one side of the stage as the orchestra and chorus struck up and Herr Pichler paced dramatically up and down along the front of the stage, belaboring the crisis which had overtaken his character. Technicians labored behind the scene to operate the bright blue waves that appeared to rise and fall behind the singers and the white-and-silver clouds that drifted through the painted sky. Tropical plants were set at intervals around the stage, and the wooden platform had been dusted with gold paint to look like sand.

Anna took a deep breath and let the music wash over her. She tried to imagine herself into her role, as the kapellmeister had explained it to her. She was in a mysterious, hidden kingdom by the sea . . . she was a Count's beautiful and spoilt young daughter . . . It would have been easier if she knew what all the words she was singing actually meant. It would have been easier yet if the leading lady weren't casting her a glare fit to kill.

Anna sighed. Last night, after the performance, she had been summoned up to the royal box in the center of the balcony, along with Herr Haydn, to be presented to the Emperor and Empress themselves. She hadn't asked for the honor; she'd been so nervous and tongue-tied before them, she would have much preferred to give up her place to Frau Kettner. Without the Baroness's quiet support, Anna wouldn't have been able to answer even the simplest question she was asked.

But from the moment the summons had arrived, Frau Kettner had treated her like a rat caught in a housekeeper's tidy kitchen.

The cue chord sounded. Anna and Frau Kettner linked arms and, singing in sweet harmony, ran onstage into the gold-dusted, tropical paradise that had been created beneath the frescoed, Italianate ceiling of the opera house. Singing, Anna forgot about everything except the music and the endless, unforgiving stream of Italian words. Their voices mingled with the chorus and with Herr Pichler's. The second tenor joined them a moment later, and the bass singer sang below them in a threatening undertone, plotting certain disaster. She lost herself in the music, in a blur of concentrated effort—until Herr Pichler's voice cracked and disappeared entirely, and the rehearsal was called to a halt.

Herr Pichler's shoulders hunched in the sudden silence, as the rest of the cast stared at him. “I—forgive me.” His voice came out as a hoarse rasp.

Herr Haydn took a deep breath. He ran a hand over his wig. “Are you unwell, Herr Pichler?”

“I'm fine,” he rasped. “Fine. I just—I need . . .” He put one hand to his throat.