Coronets and Steel (36 page)

“So he’s got organizational problems.”

“That, and a desperate need for money.” Alec got up and moved to the window. He glanced out without moving the curtains, then strolled back to his chair as I exclaimed, “The Dsaret treasure again!”

“More than that. If he could get his hands on it, he’d use it to fund his coup, which would make him more willing to gamble on future support here. Tony knows why my father and the old king hid the treasure years ago. They wanted to leave as little as possible for the conquerors, and if the time came when the conquerors pulled out, they knew stability would be established faster if we had the power of the purse.”

“So the treasure isn’t in a deep vault somewhere?”

“The bank on Sobieski Square is the only one with deep vaults. And it’s used by maybe forty percent of the population.”

“So where do people keep their money? In Germany or Switzerland?”

“No, right here. In trunks under their beds, or in wall hiding places, buried in fields, or stashed in old mines and caves.”

So it would be there if the Blessing closed them off from the rest of the known world . . . I shook away the thought. “Who controls the treasure?”

“I do. With my father’s advice and agreement.”

“I can see how that’s the best way to control power. But what’s to stop someone like Tony from arranging an accident for you on some lonely byway? Your house of cards would collapse pretty fast.”

“No, it wouldn’t. I channel most of the budget through the Church—”

“—so if I do meet my accident on the lonely byway they know my wishes, and my father’s, and have the authority to act as they think best. I don’t think Tony’d rank high in their plans. Nothing could prevent him from stepping forward to claim the crown, but if he tried to wrest the money from the Church he would shortly become only slightly more popular than the Soviets had been.”

“But the
Church?
”

His brows went up. “What are you imagining, a sinkhole presided over by modern Borgias? If so, forget it. If there were any such left in the local diocese in the last sixty years, the enthusiastic persecution by the Soviets weeded them out.” His tone was decidedly ironic, but not nasty. “In any case, Baron Ridotski watches over them—our own version of checks and balances. He was selected by the Jewish community, as they also have a vote in governing decisions. In addition there is a Russian Orthodox member on council. The rest of the council is secular, representing various interests.”

“So that brings me to Ruli. And to me. By holding her, Tony is postponing the hatchet burying, which increases local pressure on you. I see that much. But why an interest in me when he knows who I am? I don’t believe he’s enough of an ass to think that by kidnapping me he will get closer to the Dsaret treasure.”

“The symbolism works both ways, Kim. Supposing—” The door opened, and Emilio peeked in.

The tension was back. I could see it in Alec’s forehead, and in the set of his shoulders as he walked to the door. They conferred quietly, then he returned. “Supposing someone should show up claiming to be a descendent of the long-lost crown princess,” he said. “Someone who has the crown princess’ face. And supposing this someone decides that the life of a princess might be nice. And so she agrees to marry the son descended from the other Dsaret princess.”

I got a vivid image of Tony driving far too fast on the mountain road. “Aren’t Tony and I cousins in some way?”

“Quarter cousins. Not only legal, but common enough in families concerned with protecting names and fortunes. I’d say this couple would present a picture of royal appeal, wouldn’t you? Perhaps not in the eyes of his relations, but that doesn’t matter since he already has their support. In the eyes of the people, yes.”

The heat of embarrassment prickled all over me. “How stupid I was not to see it. But even if I were crazy enough to marry Tony on the second of September, your magic thing wouldn’t work for us, would it? Supposing it works at all.”

“I don’t know,” Alec said, and moved to the sideboard. “What I do know is that a wedding that day, according to the old tradition, would look damn good to a lot of people, especially to those on Devil’s Mountain. Want another shot?”

“No. I’ve got a buzz on from this much, and I have to remember my formal manners, as I don’t think Aunt Sisi is the TV tray and feet on the coffee table type.”

He gestured to the door. “It turns out she’s detained. Sends her regrets, and will join us for dessert. Shall we sit in the dining room or would you like to eat right here?”

“Anything’s okay. Do you think Tony showed up and is harassing her?”

“I think he showed up, yes. Could be they both have a great deal to say to the other.” He flashed a wry smile. “We’ll eat here. The chairs are more comfortable, and it’s warmer. When the duchess comes, we’ll have to shift to the dining room for the dessert I ordered from her own cook.” He got up, went to the door, and opened it. “Emilio? Why don’t you bring the trays in.”

“The famed Pedro provided the meal?” I asked.

“You’ve heard of him? She never travels without him and won’t eat anything but Cordon Bleu-quality French food. Luckily her Pedro is not averse to earning extra money on the side by preparing dishes for others who might find themselves entertaining Aunt Sisi.”

Emilio came in then and set up trays for us, then served
Marbré de poulet fermier au foie gras,
followed by
Longe de veau de Corrèze rôtie, légumes printaniers au jus
. I refused any wine; Aunt Sisi was due soon, and I wanted a clear head.

We chatted about food, as I inhaled that exquisite dinner. I found out that the porridge I’d eaten at Mina’s was probably the local version of
mamaliga,
which was a corn-based staple popular in that corner of the world. I discovered that he had never eaten Mexican food, and I tried to convince him how much he was missing.

During this chat I was trying to rethink my position. I’d regarded myself as distanced from Dobrenica’s problems, which I had no stake in. I was here on a private quest. But some of these people seemed to expect me to take on the identity my grandmother had abandoned.
And that means
—

I shivered.

“Are you cold? Would you like a wrap? Or something more to drink?” Alec asked.

“I’m fine.”

When Emilio came in to remove the trays I rubbed my hands slowly, trying to press warmth into them.
So if I do find out that Gran’s marriage was the legitimate one, what does that do to Ruli’s status—and her marriage to Alec?

I’d promised myself not to think about that until I had my evidence. But the longer I spent in Alec’s company, the more I . . . tried not to think about Ruli and that marriage.

I said to the fire, “You told me the city’s safe. Did you know someone’s been watching the Waleskas’ inn?”

Alec was over at the sideboard again. “I know.” I heard his smile. “No problem.”

“So . . .” I said slowly. “People turned to your father for guidance out of the misery, right? Because he inherited a crown?”

“Partly. My father’s reputation was formidable. He was tireless in slipping in and out of the country, often one or two hours ahead of the Gestapo, and later the Russians. The Soviets were pretty heavy-handed in those early days, and though he was young he had a price on his head. Which only served to foster his hero-image.”

“They would have done better to welcome him with open arms and mire him in petty bureaucracy.” When Alec smiled, I went on. “So you grew up hearing about your father’s exploits?”

“I read about them in his journal.”

“His journal?”

“He kept one for many years, the idea being to pass it on to his successor to show what he had done and why. Some of it is damned harrowing. And some is—how did my father put it, about the writings of the classics—‘a paean to the best of the human spirit persevering despite the worst of circumstances.’”

“I’d love to see it,” I exclaimed impulsively, then began a hasty and embarrassed backtrack to cover for flagrant nosiness. “Not that it’s any of my business, but my interest in history—”

“You can, if you like.” He looked down at the drink he’d just poured, not quite frowning, more like he was thinking.

I said, “Not if it’s in any way inappropriate.”

That broke the spell. “No, not at all! If you’re expecting the confessions of Henry the VIII it would be a vast disappointment.” His expression was serious, but I knew he was joking as he deliberately set the drink down, and then returned to his chair. “My austere father has led the most blameless of existences. All things considered, it’s probably a miracle I was born. You won’t find any mention of mysterious powers, magic, spirits, or otherwise in the journal, either. He rarely discussed those things. If he did, he used the conditional. But as I told you, he did marry my mother on the right day, in the right place. And nothing happened. The Soviets were still there when they came out of the church.”

“Okay,” I said. “I still want to read it. Where is your father, by the way?”

“He’s not here—yet. His health is uncertain, and his visits are always quiet. It’s was one thing for an Ysvorod to waltz in and out of the country bearing a proper Socialist title, but it was another for a king, even uncrowned, to make a triumphal return. It’s taken these many years to work things out, and his coronation was to be this year, after the wedding.”

“The” wedding, not “my” wedding.

“I wondered about the Stadthalter business. The Soviets set that up?”

“I’ll have you know I’m a duly elected official. Our first election, in fact. They put my name up against the Soviet Commissar, who hadn’t been bad in his five years’ rule. His border guards and I used to exchange gossip when I was entering and leaving the country. Anyway, though he was the only one permitted to run a campaign—a modest one, nothing like what I hear of your American circuses—the returns were still overwhelmingly in my favor. Not only virtually unanimous, but there’s a good chance a lot of the population wanted to make
sure
their voices were heard in their first election by getting back into line and voting again—” His reminiscent smile faded as his head came up quickly; he stilled, listening.

I heard nothing. “What’s wrong?”

“Aunt Sisi is here. A few minutes early.” He got up again, moved to the door, and laid his hand on the knob. “I meant to ask you, purely for my peace of mind, if you’d promise not to leave the city unless either Emilio or Kilber or I go with you.”

“I’m not the least worried about that jerk Tony—”

“It’s not Tony I’m thinking of,” he cut in.

“You’re trying to tell me there’s real danger?” I scoffed. “What if I say no?”

He shrugged. “You say no. But I did want to request this as a favor from you.” Footsteps could be heard outside, but he did not move or lift his hand from the door.

My irritation was tempered by wondering how much more was going on that I did not know about, and by his evident regret. “All right,” I said. “But under protest.”

“Acknowledged.” He lifted a hand, giving me that transfiguring smile as Emilio opened the door.

Aunt Sisi walked in, her gaze shifting from Alec to me and back again. Then she smiled and stretched out her hands in greeting.

I scrambled to my feet, she kissed my cheek and I caught the vanilla note of Jicky perfume. She was elegant in a peach-colored suit of soft wool. A diamond brooch glittered in the snow-white folds of the lace cravat at her neck. Perfectly matched pumps, obviously made for her narrow feet, and faultlessly groomed hair finished the picture. “My dear children.” She smiled graciously on us both. “Have you been putting your young heads together on my poor daughter’s behalf?”

I’d expected her to be upset, or even anxious on her daughter’s behalf, instead of smiling with sophisticated assurance and a hint of humor when her gaze took in my rumpled dress. She truly did come from a time when self-control was taught from the cradle.

I gave her an awkward greeting. With pleasant expertise Alec took over as he led us to the dining room, starting off easy talk about wines of various countries. The dining room was severely formal, the table and chairs old enough to have pleased Lord Chesterfield with their restrained cabriole curves and subdued Enlightenment pine green and white.

We were waited on by Emilio who had metamorphosed into a black-jacketed butler as we partook of white dessert wine in chilled goblets, light, puffy apricot
Pets de Nonnes,
and social chat, congenial but not relaxed. I didn’t know if Aunt Sisi’s straight back, her posed hands, her modulated voice signaled the upset I’d expected to see. I couldn’t read her at all. But I did notice that Alec—smiling, suave, affable—watched her every move.

After dessert we withdrew to another formal salon, this one a harmonious whole made up of Baroque flourishes: tapestry-cushioned shield-backed chairs—blue with stylized snowflakes in white—and tables with mythical beings carved along the curved legs. A tapestry depicting warriors in various shades of brown and red and gold foundered in snow around a silvery central figure, an angel or a girl.

I was afraid to sit on the chairs—were they antiques meant to be looked at? Alec and Aunt Sisi sat down without a second thought, so I followed suit.

Emilio wheeled in a polished solid silver coffee service with a crest on each piece. The dishware was blue and gold Royal Doulton Harlow pattern coffee cups—in other words, heavy social artillery.

While we sipped at the excellent coffee, Alec brought up the subject of Ruli.