Prisoner of the Iron Tower (41 page)

Even as the soldiers threw themselves on it, the shadow-creature tore itself free and hurled itself through the broken window, disappearing into the night.

Gouts of red dripped across Gavril’s sight. All he could see was a woman’s face, white as snow, distorted by pain and fear. A white mask slashed with stains of scarlet.

He looked down at his hands. There was blood on the dark blue curve of the claw-nails. And a strange, metallic sweetness in his mouth. Had he done this terrible thing?

He felt sick with self-loathing. How could he have struck out so viciously again?

He could hear the Tielens blundering through the gardens, searching for the intruder. He turned his back on Kastel Drakhaon and made his way through the darkened forest to the ruined watchtower. There he sat down, hugging his knees, rocking to and fro in misery.

“Make it stop, Khezef,” he cried aloud, his voice more the howl of a forest beast than a man. “Please make it stop!”

CHAPTER
30

“Never trust a wind-mage,” muttered Malusha as she buckled the harness around Harim’s shaggy-coated body, “for they’re as fickle as a spring gale, blowing this way and that.”

Harim patiently allowed himself to be led to the cart. It was a fine spring day, with fresh gusts of wind sending little white clouds dancing across a pure blue sky. The air tasted of green buds and sweet spring rain.

“First he whisks my granddaughter away on the Emperor’s business.” Malusha stopped. “And where is she, my Kiukiu? You miss her too, don’t you, Harim? I know she used to give you apples sneaked from the winter store when I wasn’t looking.” She gave a sigh. She had not worried at first when Kiukiu failed to return, but now as the days stretched to weeks, she began to wonder if some harm might have befallen her. “I should never have let her go with that Kaspar Linnaius.”

And then there had been the dream last night. She had woken in the darkest hour, certain that lightning had shivered across the moorlands. Yet when she had opened the shutter, the night was calm and still, with not even the faintest tremor of distant thunder.

Since then she had been troubled by an indefinable feeling of unease.

“And what of the promise that Magus made to me? I ask you, Harim, what’s more important to a Spirit Singer than her duty to her House?”

Harim gave a little snort and nuzzled her shoulder.

“There’s an Arkhel baby to be named. Little Lord Stavyomir.” She chuckled to herself. “That I should live to see this day—an heir to the House of Arkhel.”

Malusha climbed slowly, rheumatically, up into the cart, easing herself down onto the wooden seat beside the little pots of honey and dried herbs she planned to sell or trade in the city.

“Take care of the place for me while I’m away, my lords and ladies,” she called to the owls. “And now, Harim—let’s be off to Azhgorod.”

“Papers? What papers?” Malusha turned to the red-faced young soldier on the Southgate, arms folded. “I never needed papers in Lord Stavyor’s time. What does an old woman like me need with papers? I’d just lose ’em.”

“Now then, Grandma—”

“Don’t you ‘grandma’ me, young man! Do I look dangerous to you? Just let me through and we won’t say another word about it.”

“Is there anyone in the city who could vouch for you?”

A little queue was building up at the gate; mutterings could be heard from the others waiting to enter the city. A farmer shouted out, “Just let the old woman in, lad, and be done with it. I’ll vouch for her.”

The soldier shifted uneasily from foot to foot. Another came out to whisper in his ear. Both were scarcely older than boys and their uniform jackets looked several sizes too big.

“You’re allowed in, just this once,” he said. “But next time you have to stop to have official papers made up for you.”

“What’s the Tielen army coming to—cradle-snatching?” called the farmer. “You lads should still be at school, not ordering your elders and betters around.”

Malusha didn’t stop to hear the reply; she shook Harim’s reins and the cart rattled under the archway and into the city.

Several hours later, and after many fruitless inquiries, she found herself perplexed. No one seemed to know the name Stavyomir Arkhel. Had Linnaius spun her the tale to get her away from her granddaughter?

She sold the honey and the herbs in the marketplace and listened to the chatter around her, hoping for clues. What had Kiukiu said the mother’s name was? The “nasty piece of work” she had warned her of? Was it Lilias?

Malusha stopped at the stall of a Khitari tea merchant and sampled a bowl or two of tea: first green, then black scented with jasmine petals. Tea from Khitari was an expensive luxury; if she waited long enough, some servant from a big house was certain to come by. As she waited, she treated herself to a scoop of jasmine tea, which cost her the money she’d earned from the sale of three pots of honey.

Sure enough, a well-dressed serving woman approached and asked for a jar of green tea. Malusha’s eyes widened at such extravagance.

“I’m looking for someone called Lilias,” she said.

The woman turned to gaze at her with an expression of disdain.

“That is a name my mistress has forbidden to be spoken in the house.”

Malusha was intrigued. “Why so?”

“It’s none of your business.” The serving woman took up her jar of tea and walked off.

“She’s Lady Stoyan’s maid. Haven’t you heard?” called out a woman from the linen stall. “Lilias Arbelian has become Lord Stoyan’s mistress.”

“Arbelian?” Malusha was confused. “The Lilias I’m looking for is called ‘Arkhel.’ She has a little son.”

“Lilias Arbelian has a baby son.”

“Then maybe she’s the one. Where can I find her?”

“At Lord Stoyan’s mansion, across from the cathedral.”

Malusha was tired now; her feet ached with tramping over uneven cobblestones and her skirts were dirtied with mud. Yet she was determined to do what she had come to do, so she set off toward the tall, black spires of the cathedral.

When she came out into the square, the first thing she noticed was the guard of Tielen soldiers around Lord Stoyan’s mansion.

“Don’t ask for my papers, I haven’t got any,” she said before the soldier could ask. “I just want to pay a visit to Lilias Arbelian and her baby.”

The soldier looked at her. “I’m under orders not to admit anyone without papers.”

“I just want to see the baby.”

“He’s not here. Lord Stoyan has taken Lady Lilias and the baby away for a few days.”

“Away?” Malusha repeated. “How can they be away when I’ve come across the moors to see them? When will they be back?”

The soldier shrugged.

“I’ll wait, then.” But even as she turned away, disappointed, she knew she would not wait; she wanted to return home.

The bells of Saint Sergius began to clang, each iron-tongued note making her head throb. The constant noise and bustle of Azhgorod were bewildering and exhausting after the lonely quiet of the moorlands.

“I’ll find you, little Lord Stavyomir. And you’ll get your proper Arkhel naming ceremony, like your father Jaromir and his father Stavyor before him, whatever your mother says. It just won’t be today.”

The advance guard of the Smarnan rebels reached the grassy hill overlooking Colchise and Vermeille Bay beyond. Iovan elected himself to ride ahead to report to the council. No one contested his decision; all were tired, and glad of a chance to sprawl on the grass, smoke tobacco, and do nothing for a while.

Pavel dismounted, leaving his horse to crop the short turf, and gazed down at the Old Citadel. RaÏsa joined him.

“Look,” she said, “the Smarnan standard is still flying.”

The ragged standard, bloodstained and shot through by Tielen bullets, fluttered defiantly above the broken battlements.

“I hope there will be better news of Miran,” she said quietly.

But Pavel had caught sight of something on the far horizon. “Are those sails?” He pulled out his little spyglass to get a clearer look.

RaÏsa shaded her eyes against the setting sun. “Too many ships for a fishing fleet.”

Pavel twisted the lens, trying to read the colors flying on the mast of the foremost ship.

“Francia?” he said. “The Francian fleet, off Smarna?”

“Let me see!” RaÏsa grabbed the glass from him, putting it to her eye. She let out a soft whistle. “There’s so many of them. What are they doing out there? Where are they headed?”

“We have powerful allies . . .”
Nina Vashteli had told the Emperor, and Pavel had thought she was calling his bluff. Now, looking at this vast fleet, he felt overwhelmed by a sense of impending disaster. Did Eugene have any idea that King Enguerrand had entered the field? The stakes had been raised. Smarna had become the pawn in a greater game between two powerful rivals.

When he agreed to become Eugene’s agent in Smarna, the Emperor had given him no specific instructions except to infiltrate the rebels’ camp and extract as much information as he could.
“Exactly how you act on that information, I leave to your discretion.”

It was time to act.

“We must go to the citadel,” he said, hurrying toward his horse.

“I’ll come with you!” RaÏsa’s eyes burned with excitement, and he hated himself for what he was about to do. Part of him, the better part, yearned to break the promise he had made to the Emperor. He didn’t want to risk her seeing him betraying her cause. For she would see it as a betrayal. She wouldn’t listen to his reasons. She wouldn’t want to hear that life as part of the enlightened New Rossiyan Empire would be infinitely preferable to the code of conduct that Enguerrand and his fanatical clerics would impose.

“Leave this to me, RaÏsa.” He put his hands on her shoulders. “Go home and see how Miran is.”

“But, Pavel—”

He climbed up into the saddle and urged his horse down the winding hill road.

“The Francian fleet?” Nina Vashteli smiled at Pavel. Her hair was sleekly swept up, she was wearing kohl around her eyes and her lips were glossily red with rouge. “Yes, the council has granted permission for them to carry out a naval exercise in the bay. It seems the waters off Fenez-Tyr are too stormy at this time of year.”

The Vox Aethyria bloomed, a flower of crystal in the somber light.

“In late spring?” Pavel said. It didn’t seem too convincing an excuse. He tried to stop glancing at the Vox Aethyria, wondering when he might engineer an opportunity to send a warning to the Emperor. “So, in spite of the retreat of the invasion force, there’s still been no response to your message from the Emperor?”

“No,” she said coldly.

“And Governor Armfeld?”

“Governor? We do not recognize anyone as governor here, Pavel. Armfeld is still our prisoner.”

“You do realize, Madame Minister,” Pavel said in earnest now, “that the enmity between Francia and Tielen goes back many centuries? And in inviting the Francian fleet to defend your shores, you may have set fire to a powder trail that will end in the destruction of all our countries?”

“We have acted in the best interests of Smarna. I suggest you return to the Villa Sapara and enjoy one of Mama Chadi’s good meals, Pavel. You can relax now for a little while.”

Iovan came in. “You’re wanted to authorize permits for the Francian crewmen to come ashore, Madame Minister.”

“Very well.” She followed Iovan out of the chamber. Pavel glanced again at the Vox Aethyria. He had been dismissed by Nina Vashteli, told his services were not required. It would only take a minute to transmit a message to Tielen. . . .

He moved silently to the Vox and, activating the connection, began to whisper into it, not daring to raise his voice. “Francian fleet off Southern Smarna—”

He felt the cold muzzle of a pistol pressed into the back of his neck.

“I knew it,” said Iovan Korneli. “I was right all along. You
are
a spy.”

As soon as she was sure she was alone, Astasia opened the little calendar she had hidden inside her novel and counted.

“Surely not,” she whispered and counted again. All the upset of traveling to and fro from country to country must have upset her monthly cycle. Her mother Sofia had assured her that all the women in the family were slow to conceive. She knew so little about such matters. And for the first time, she found herself wishing Mama was here. But Mama was far away, at their country estate at Erinaskoe in Muscobar.

Someone tapped at the door; hastily, Astasia slipped the calendar back inside the novel and pretended to read.

“Come in.”

“Here are the masks, imperial highness, that you requested. And the perukes.”

Astasia looked up to see that the Countess Lovisa had—uninvited—decided to supervise the choosing of her costume for the masked ball. Nadezhda hovered, making helpless little signs of apology to Astasia behind the countess’s back.

Astasia slowly closed the novel, replacing her silk-tasseled bookmark with care.

“Thank you, countess,” she said with her best attempt at a gracious smile. “You may leave us now. I’m sure you have many demands on your time.”

“But nothing is more important to me than attending upon your imperial highness,” said Countess Lovisa with an equally gracious smile.

“But helping me try on a dress or two is surely more appropriate for a lady’s maid.”

“I only wanted to be sure of your imperial highness’s final choice of costume so that I could ensure no one else was impertinent enough to copy it.”

She’s suspicious. But why? Has she been spying on me?

“Nadezhda is very clever with her needle. She can always swiftly transform my costume with a ribbon or a feather if anyone dares to be so impertinent.”

Nadezhda bobbed a cheeky little curtsy, acknowledging the compliment. But Countess Lovisa did not move. Astasia tried to think up an urgent errand that only the countess could accomplish.

Nadezhda began to open boxes and lift out their contents from rustling layers of tissue paper.

“Oh dear, highness, there’s been a mix-up here,” she said, winking at Astasia out of the countess’s line of sight. “This is Princess Karila’s costume.”