Prisoner of the Iron Tower (45 page)

Vassian nodded again. “Count on me. But what—”

“Time to leave,” Celestine called warningly from the coach.

Andrei squeezed Valery’s arm gratefully. “Later.” He turned and hoisted himself up into the coach.

Vassian closed the door and saluted them. “I hope you’ve had a pleasant evening,” he called loudly. “I wish you a safe journey.”

As the coach driver guided the horses away from the palace, Andrei saw Valery still standing to attention, watching them.

“That was unfortunate. Can he be trusted?” Celestine said. There was a hard, merciless gleam in her eyes that Andrei had never seen before. “If not, an accident could be arranged . . .”

“That won’t be necessary.” He spoke with equal conviction. “I’d trust Valery with my life.”

“Very well. I need a sound alibi. And Lieutenant Vassian has just seen me leave the palace in my coach.” Celestine rapped on the coach roof with her fan. “Stop a moment, driver!” She opened the door and climbed lightly down onto the gravel drive.

“Where are you going?” Andrei asked, bemused. “I thought—”

“There’s one more thing I must attend to. Wait for me at the lodge gate. Drive on, coachman!”

Astasia raised her mask to wipe the tears from her eyes. She was vexed with herself for crying, even more vexed for caring enough about her husband’s indifference to cry at all.

“Imperial highness.”

She turned and saw Valery Vassian. There he stood in his New Rossiyan uniform, his brown eyes filled with kindly concern, the sole familiar face in this crowd of strangers.

“Speak to me in our home tongue, Valery,” she said.

He bowed. “Your highness looks tired. Your highness’s brother has asked me to look after you in his absence.”

Startled, she gazed up at him.

“Don’t worry; I am sworn to secrecy,” he said gallantly.

All of a sudden she felt exhausted. She was not sure if she had the strength to cross the terrace and reenter the palace. A strong arm to lean on was all she wished for.

“I
am
tired,” she said. He offered her his arm and gratefully she slipped her hand through. As they walked slowly away from the lantern-lit gardens, she said, “Thank you, Valery.”

She felt ashamed now when she remembered how she used to tease him for his clumsiness, how his face had turned a deep red at her unkind words.

“You know,” he said fervently, “I would do anything for you. You have only to ask.”

“Anything, Valery?” The
Melusine,
Andrei had said, in the harbor at Haeven. “Even if it meant deserting your duty here at the palace?”

A gaudily dressed pantaloon was bending over a bay tree, being noisily sick into its white-painted wooden tub. Kaspar Linnaius passed hastily by. These Tielens were too fond of their alcohol. They drank to excess, as if they might never see wine or aquavit again. Before the night was over, many of the guests would have to be carried to their carriages, insensible with drink. But long before then, he and Eugene would be far from Swanholm.

“Good evening, Magus.”

Linnaius started. A masked, snow-wigged young woman in a pale blue shepherdess’s costume had appeared out of the darkness. She was standing in the archway that led into his courtyard. Could it be the Empress? Astasia had been wearing a costume very like this one. And the woman’s voice, though light and young, was tinged with a foreign accent.

“I have been waiting for you, Magus.”

He slowed, wondering what possible reason the Empress could have for coming to see him here, alone, so late at night. Faint strains of dance music still drifted from the gardens, mingled with raucous bursts of cheering.

She lifted one hand to her gilded mask and untied the ribbons. Eyes of an angelic blue gazed at him; he recognized the young singer with the glorious voice he had seen earlier with the Empress Astasia.

“You have me at a disadvantage—” he began, stuttering a little.

“Let me introduce myself.” She peeled off the white wig, shaking loose her golden hair. “My professional name is Celestine de Joyeuse. But Joyeuse is the name of my singing-master, the man who adopted me, a poor orphan in a convent school.”

“This is all very interesting, demoiselle, but—”

“My real name is Celestine de Maunoir.”

Linnaius felt a dull shudder of pain in his breast at the sound of that name. “Maunoir’s child?” he repeated. “Impossible. You are too young.”

“I was just five years old when the Commanderie took my father. That was twenty-one years ago.”

Linnaius twitched his finger and thumb, making the lanternlight brighter so that he could see her face more clearly.

“But—my dear child—”

“I am no child, Kaspar Linnaius. After they burned my father at the stake for heresy, I was forced to grow up all too fast.”

Had she come for money? Or revenge? How much did she know? He could not tell from looking into her clear blue eyes. All he knew was that this conversation was wasting valuable time and that Eugene was waiting for him. And it was not prudent to keep an emperor waiting.

“This is fascinating, my dear. Let us arrange a tête-à-tête for tomorrow and I will tell you everything I know about your father.”

“I sail for Allegonde tomorrow.”

She seemed determined to speak to him. Which was unfortunate, as he would now be obliged to work some glamour upon her. It was difficult enough trying to keep Kiukirilya hidden without having to deal with this spectre from his past.

He moved closer, gazing deep into her eyes.

“Yes, I see the likeness now; your eyes are the same color as his,” he murmured. Her will was strong, and he could sense considerable resistance to his attempt to enthrall her mind. He slid his hand into the deep inner pocket of his robe, where he kept a few granules of sleepdust.

“And don’t try your mage trickery on me,” she said. “I took precautions to protect myself. . . .” Her voice began to trail away as the little shimmering cloud drifted down around her and she slowly sank to the ground, insensible.

Linnaius went for help and almost bumped into a tall young lieutenant striding purposefully back toward the palace.

“There’s a young woman lying in my courtyard; I think she may have taken a little too much punch tonight.”

The lieutenant followed him.

“Why, it’s Demoiselle de Joyeuse,” he said, kneeling down beside her. “I’ll take her back to her coach; the queue to the gate is moving very slowly.”

He gathered the young woman up in his arms and carried her off toward the drive.

Linnaius watched him, leaning for support against the wall. He could still feel the dull, heavy pain around his heart and his breathing had not yet steadied.

Maunoir’s daughter.
What did she really want with him? And was she the one who had attempted to break the wards on his rooms? Still, by the time she awoke tomorrow, he would be far away.

The palace clock chimed midnight; there was no time for such conjecture now. He was late for his meeting with the Emperor.

Eugene cast his mask and wig down on the floor and shrugged off the heavy purple robes. His valet discreetly whisked them out of sight and, used to Eugene’s habits, filled a washing bowl with fresh cold water.

“Gustave—I’m going hunting,” Eugene called, plunging his face and hands into the bowl. After being burned by Drakhaon’s Fire, he could rarely bear hot water on his face and preferred the rough shock of the cold. Besides, it reminded him of being on campaign. No luxuries, just the bare essentials a man needed to live.

“Hunting?” Gustave handed him a towel to dry himself, as the valet reappeared with a
robe de chambre
. “Shall I call the Master of the Hunt to make arrangements?”

“No, Gustave, I’ve had enough arrangements. I’m going alone.”

Gustave raised his eyebrows. “But, highness, is it wise, in view of the Francian fleet—?”

Eugene shot him a severe look.

“Not that I meant to imply in any way that your highness is incapable of looking after himself. It’s just that, should any emergency occur—”

“The Chancellor and the council will deal with it. What can happen in a day’s hunting?”

“Smarna?” ventured Gustave.

“When I return from my hunting,” Eugene said, unable to hide the exultation in his voice, “Smarna will no longer be a poisoned thorn in New Rossiya’s side.”

The nail-studded door to the Rossiyan treasury creaked slowly open, the sound echoing around the bare stone vault. Even as the Magus held high a lantern to illuminate the darkness, Eugene made out a dull red glow emanating from its deepest recess.

“The Tears, Linnaius. The Tears are glowing.”

He hurried ahead into the vault. The Magus followed, having first set a ward around the threshold to prevent them from being disturbed.

The imperial crown rested on a cushion of crimson silk in its crystal cabinet. As Eugene approached, he saw that the rubies glowed with a more intense radiance.

“The Tears of Artamon,” he said softly. “Here is our key, Linnaius, the key to unlock the Serpent Gate.” He released the intricate cypher-lock Paer Paersson had devised to protect his handiwork. Only one other living person knew the cypher, and that was Chancellor Maltheus. The crystal door swung slowly open and Eugene reached inside to take out his crown.

Linnaius produced a thin-bladed scalpel and began to prize apart the delicate golden clasps that secured each ruby in place.

“It seems a crime to ruin Paer Paersson’s artistry,” said Eugene. “He and his craftsmen labored long and hard to perfect these settings.”

“And he will be just as delighted to repair it for you, highness.” Linnaius placed the rubies, one by one, in a finely wrought golden clasp, cleverly partitioned to hold the stones close to one another.

“I feel like a thief in my own treasure vault,” Eugene confessed, “sneaking in at dead of night . . .”

“My concern, highness, is that the energy of these stones has slowly leaked away since they were divided centuries ago.”

“Ssh. Listen.”

A faint sound had begun, deep as the drone of a nest of bees.

“They may not still contain enough power to open the Serpent Gate,” said Linnaius, placing the final stone beside its peers.

A column of fiery light sprang out, like a swift arrow loosed from a bow, piercing the roof of the vault.

“But they will show us the way to Ty Nagar.” Eugene gazed at the glowing rubies. He passed a hand over them and felt a shock of energy tremble through his fingers.

The bonfires burned brightly, and the skirling of the wild music made Karila’s heart sing. Why should she have to go to bed when all the other guests were still enjoying themselves?

Marta kept a firm hold on her hand as they walked across the ballroom. Servants were clearing away the debris from supper: the smeared crystal dishes that had held elaborate cream-topped desserts, the delicate glasses stained with dregs of wine, the greasy chicken, guinea fowl, and duck carcasses, stripped clean of meat.

“Couldn’t we just stay for a few minutes more?” Karila begged, lagging behind so that Marta had to tug her along. “Please, Marta? I won’t be able to sleep with all the music playing in the gardens.”

“You’ll catch cold in that flimsy costume,” said Marta severely.

And then Karila saw Lieutenant Petter at the far entrance to the ballroom. She knew Marta saw him too, for her governess faltered in her determined pace. Karila had seen Marta behave strangely whenever they encountered the good-looking lieutenant, blushing and stammering over the most simple of greetings.

The lieutenant was coming straight toward them; Marta slowed down. He saluted them both, smiling. He was in uniform, not a costume, Karila noted.

“Still on duty, Lieutenant?” Marta said.

“No, I’ve just been relieved,” he said.
What a warm smile he has,
Karila thought. “And just in time to see the bonfires. Shall I escort you, ladies?”

“Well—” began Marta.

Karila seized her opportunity. “Yes please, Lieutenant!”

“But her highness is supposed to be in bed—”

“
Please,
Marta.” Karila used her most endearing voice.

“Just five minutes, then, no more.” Marta slipped her hand through the lieutenant’s arm.

The night air felt chillier now and a sharp little breeze had begun to tease the flames, whisking glowing sparks high in the air like clouds of fireflies. The smoke, carried on the breeze, irritated Karila’s throat and made her eyes sting. She tried to swallow down a cough, knowing Marta would march her straight back indoors at the slightest wheeze. But Marta only had eyes for Lieutenant Petter. They were gazing at each other, the firelight bright on their faces. The wild fiddle music and the singing and stamping grew louder as they approached the roaring flames. Were they going to jump? Karila was almost sick with excitement at the idea.

Close to the flames, Karila could see that the fire had been constructed so that it would do no more than singe the heels of those brave enough to jump across. Slow-burning coals lined the firepit, with just enough pine logs above to burn with crackling and orange-blue flames.

The smoke made her throat sore and she coughed, trying to smother the sound with her hand.

“Ready, Marta?” Lieutenant Petter grasped her hand in his. She lifted her skirts with her other hand. They were going to do it! Karila clapped enthusiastically with the other watchers as the fiddlers scraped, releasing a raw, soaring melody, full of grindingly dissonant double-stops.

Marta and the lieutenant paused a moment. Then he shouted, “Now!” and they ran forward, leaping high, the flames licking at their heels.

A rousing cheer greeted their landing and through the red-flame shadows Karila saw them lean closer to each other . . . and kiss.

A strange yearning overcame her as she stood alone beneath the star-dusted sky. The fiddle music whirled on, and the dancers leaped, dark silhouettes against the brightness of the bonfire. But she felt as if a spear of crimson light had pierced her heart. She took in a breath—and felt the pain again, as sharp as death.