Prisoner of the Iron Tower (43 page)

The dazzle of her smile worked its magic; they were waved through and their carriage began the long winding descent toward the palace.

Andrei let out a quiet whistle. “That was too close.” What was Valery Vassian doing in Eugene’s imperial bodyguard? Was he here to protect Astasia?

Andrei’s fingers began to tap out an insistent repetitive rhythm on the side of the carriage as they rattled down the wide graveled drive. His whole body was taut with nerves. He had been out of society for so long that the sight of so many people gathered together made him feel jittery. He still walked with a slight limp; suppose someone noticed? This illicit meeting with Astasia meant everything to him. Nothing must jeopardize it.

Music drifted in; by the lakeside, a wind-band was playing in a torchlit pavilion, the high notes of the flutes and hautbois carrying on the darkening air. And though the melodies were familiar old dance tunes, they seemed to Andrei to exude a strangely sinister quality that matched his jangled nerves.

Celestine leaned across and placed her hand on his, her touch soft yet reassuring.

“Don’t worry,” she said, gazing earnestly into his eyes. “You will see your sister. And very soon.”

The carriage stopped and a masked flunky opened the door. Andrei got down first, awkwardly; his mended legs were still stiff and unpredictable. Then he offered his hand to Celestine.

All around them, guests were descending from carriages, sporting a bizarre assortment of masks: from simple velvet or silk dominos to painted plaster, cleverly molded to cover the whole face. Andrei saw slant-eyed, powder-white Khitari actors’ masks, and grotesque blue and scarlet temple thunder-gods from lands far beyond the eastern mountains. Some guests wore jeweled bird masks with beaks and curling feathers; others furry animal snouts of fox, bear, and lion.

“We look very ordinary,” he said in Celestine’s ear as they joined the queue of guests.

“Exactly,” she said. “Who will take notice of such a boringly pastoral pair alongside all these exotic creations? Now don’t forget. Your cue is the fanfare announcing the start of the fireworks. Your sister knows that is the moment we will change places. The rest . . . is up to you.”

Francian fleet off Southern Smarna—

Eugene raised his eyes from the paper to see Gustave staring back at him tensely.

“Where’s the rest of the message?”

“We think our operative was interrupted. The transmission was terminated abruptly. Then the connection went dead.”

“Pavel,” Eugene murmured. If the Smarnan rebels had caught Pavel Velemir, he would be tried and shot as a spy, but not before being subjected to a lengthy and painful interrogation. He remembered the young man’s charm—and the frayed cuffs on his shirts. Pavel had shown such promise; and if he had been discovered, there was nothing Eugene could do to rescue him.

“Is this the same fleet that was taking Enguerrand on his pilgrimage to Djihan-Djihar?” A feeling of anxiety gripped his stomach. Had he and his ministers misread the Smarnan conflict? Was a small uprising about to escalate into full-scale war?

Outside in the gardens a little orchestra began to play a lively gavotte. There came a tap at the locked door.

“Imperial highness?” It was his valet, ready to dress him for the ball.

“One moment.” Eugene grimaced at Gustave. “The ball! How can I dance and joke and play the good host with the situation in Smarna out of control?”

Astasia had managed to smile her way through the formal reception. From time to time the temptation to scan the crowd of guests for a glimpse of Celestine and Andrei grew too great and she found herself glancing around, almost forgetting what she was saying to Countess this or Counsellor that.

When Fredrik, the majordomo, came to whisper to her that the ball was to start, she was almost glad that she could calm her nerves with dancing.

Eugene, evidently uncomfortable in his heavy costume, stood waiting for her at the head of the great marble staircase that led into the ballroom. As she placed her hand on his, she could tell that his mind was elsewhere; behind the mask, his eyes looked at her, through her.

“What’s wrong?” she whispered as the guests thronged into the ballroom.

“Nothing that need concern you tonight, Astasia.”

“Your concerns are my concerns too,” she said sharply, hurt that he had spoken to her as if to a child. But before he could reply, a dazzling fanfare rang out and the Master of Ceremonies announced, “The Emperor and Empress of New Rossiya!” and they were obliged to walk down the staircase to the applause of the assembled guests, smiling and nodding.

“And now the Emperor and Empress will start our Dievona Ball.”

The musicians began to play. Astasia stood on the empty dance floor staring at Eugene.

“We are expected to dance together,” she whispered, feeling herself blushing beneath her mask.

“You know I have no skill at dancing,” he replied brusquely.

For a moment she felt sorry for him. She placed one hand on his shoulder and slipped the other into his unburned hand and gently nudged his foot with her own. “Just walk it through,” she said in his ear, “one step at a time. Leave the counting to me.”

She could sense from the tension in his body that he was furious at being made to undergo this indignity. Slowly they moved off and the Master of Ceremonies began to applaud. Soon other dancers joined them and Eugene relaxed his grip on her hand, leading her to the side of the ballroom.

She glanced up at him, her feelings even more confused. For a moment on the dance floor, she had forgotten Celestine’s revelation, had forgotten Lovisa, had just let herself relax against him and felt . . .
safe
.

Now she found herself wishing that Andrei would tell her Celestine was mistaken and his ship had been dashed on the rocks by a genuine storm, not one whistled up by Kaspar Linnaius.

Eugene glowered at the bobbing sea of masked dancers who had invaded his palace. The riotous colors of their costumes offended his restrained tastes.

I should be on my way to Ty Nagar. Every minute spent here is another acre of Smarna lost to the empire.

His costume, organized by Lovisa, was considerably less dignified than she had promised. Whose fancy had it been to dress him as Artamon the Great? The robes were heavy and hot; the purple, turquoise, and gold brocades were far too ostentatious, and the gilt on the paste crown and mask were beginning to flake off as he perspired.

And the dance music was too insipid for his liking; these tedious, simpering little tunes, sighed out on violins and chalumeaux, lacked the vigor of martial music. They were probably Francian!

Young noblewomen of the court, dressed as wood-sylphs, with little sequinned wings attached to their gauze skirts and silk flowers in their unbound hair, ran past, giggling. Eugene sternly averted his gaze; their thin costumes were far too revealing, showing more than a tantalizing glimpse of unbound breasts.

No wife or daughter of mine . . .

He glanced at Astasia, who was dancing with Chancellor Maltheus now. Maltheus had come as a wild boar; his mask sported bristles and curling tusks. For a man of his bulk, he was a more than passable dancer and was partnering Astasia with skill.

More skill than I was capable of in the opening dance.
Eugene had merely led his wife once around the dance floor to start the ball; he had not even attempted to perform a step or two.

“Papa, why do you look so unhappy?” Karila touched his arm. “This is such a lovely ball.” Her face, beneath the swan mask with its black and gold beak, was radiant.

Chastened at his show of ill humor, he bent down and picked her up in his arms so that she could see better. At least the night’s revels had made Kari happy.

“Astasia dances beautifully, doesn’t she?”

He heard such wistfulness in her voice. He looked at Astasia. She was transformed when she danced: graceful in her movements, wild, free. He glimpsed something that he knew she withheld from him when they were together, something she could only express when unconstrained by duty or court etiquette. And poor, lame Karila could only dream of moving with such grace and freedom.

“Yes,” he said, hugging her close, “she does dance beautifully. But dancing isn’t everything, Kari.”

“Why aren’t you dancing with her?”

“Me?” The directness of her question took him by surprise. “Because I have two left feet on a dance floor, Kari, and I would only embarrass your new mama with my clumsiness.”

She gave a little sigh of sympathy, which he felt resonate through his own body as well. And at that moment, the dance came to a close. The dancers broke into noisy chatter as they left the polished floor and the musicians changed their music sheets, indulging in a little tuning. Eugene winced; he could endure the whine and crash of exploding mortars in battle, but the wailing of catgut violin strings sliding in and out of pitch set his teeth on edge.

Astasia approached with Chancellor Maltheus; both looked a little out of breath and Maltheus was fanning himself with one hand.

“The Empress dances exquisitely,” he said, puffing. “Oh it’s no good, highness, I shall have to take off this boar’s head; whatever made me agree to wear such a hot, hairy mask?”

Instantly a servant appeared with a tray of refreshing drinks: fruit punch, lemonade, and sparkling wine, both white and delicate pink.

“Wine, Astasia?” Eugene took a tall fluted glass, remembering that she was fond of this sparkling rosé he had imported from Francia for the occasion, and handed it to her.

“No, thank you,” she said—rather brusquely, he thought. “Lemonade is more to my taste tonight.” Her manner was distinctly chilly toward him; he supposed it must be because of his poor performance in the opening dance.

Brilliant fanfares rang out from the terraces. And at the same moment, the darkening sky lit with showers of gold and silver explosions.

“The fireworks!” cried Karila, clapping her hands in an ecstasy of excitement. “The fireworks have begun!”

Astasia’s heart was pattering so fast with anticipation and fear that she could not speak. This was the moment. As the imperial party moved toward the terrace, she spotted Celestine behind one of the pale marble pillars. It was almost too easy, in the mêlée, to slip behind the next pillar just as Celestine slid into her place behind Eugene.

Astasia felt a hand on her shoulder. She turned—and saw dark eyes gazing into hers from behind a gilded mask.

“Andrei?” she whispered. For a moment, the candleflames of the chandeliers overhead merged to a blur and she feared she would faint. Outside, rockets whizzed and screamed as starbursts of color lit up the dark gardens.

“We’ll get a better view down here.” Her shepherd guided her down the steps, moving away from the terrace. Everyone was watching the fireworks; no one would notice a shepherd and shepherdess slipping out into the night.

“The Orangery,” Astasia said, making swiftly for the graceful white-painted pavilion. Inside, the air was perfumed with the sugar-sweet scent of orange blossom and the earthier aroma of leaf mold and mulch. It was dark enough under the glossy-leaved trees, but Astasia led Andrei to an arbor at the heart of the Orangery, where no one could glimpse them when the fireworks lit up the night sky.

“Is it really you?” she said in their home tongue, breathless now with nerves.

He took off the gilded mask and powdered wig. Dark curls, tousled from confinement beneath the wig, sprang up. Dark eyes gazed at her from a face that was far leaner than she remembered, all the boyish contours honed away.

“Andrei,” she said again and threw her arms around him, clutching him tightly. “It is you!” She was laughing and crying and she didn’t care; she was just unspeakably happy that he was alive.

After a while he put his hands on her shoulders and held her at arm’s length, looking into her eyes as if trying to read her thoughts. She saw his cheeks were wet with tears too; he was weeping unashamedly, her big, strong brother who never cried.

“Don’t,” she said, reaching up to gently wipe the wetness away with the tip of one finger.

“How long have we got?” he asked, his voice unsteady.

“The finale of the display is to be the illumination of the lake with the emblems of the five countries of New Rossiya.”

“So short a time.”

“Stay, Andrei.” She caught hold of his hand, clutching it between her own. “Eugene will welcome you at court. For my sake, he’ll welcome you—”

Andrei shook his head. “I can’t, Tasia. Not now that I know what I have to do.” A dazzling cascade of silver stars erupted overhead, outlining the orange branches in stark shadow. “His work, I suppose?”

“Kaspar Linnaius?”

“Celestine told you?”

“But I still can’t believe it to be true. How can a man, a mere man, control the winds? How can he send storms where he wants them to go?”

“Your husband has built his empire using the occult arts to defeat his enemies.” Another brilliant cascade, white as cherry blossom, lit up the Orangery. “Better he still believes me dead.”

“And what of Mama and Papa?” Astasia felt her lower lip trembling; she bit it to stop herself from weeping. “Papa is a broken man, Andrei. He has never recovered from the news. And Mama . . .”

She saw him swallow hard. “Believe me, I’d like nothing better than to see them, Tasia. But I’ve been advised that it’s too soon.”

“Advised? By whom?”

“I’m going to Francia for a while, to the court of King Enguerrand. I have information that they need to make use of.”

“Information?” Astasia drew away from him. Suddenly she felt she was treading dangerous ground. Could she trust this new, reborn Andrei? “About Tielen?”

“Don’t worry, little sister; I’m not here to spy on you.”

She looked at him, wary now. Had she been unwise to agree to this meeting?

“The information is to do with my miraculous recovery. It’s too long a story for now, but I was a mess, Tasia—nearly every bone in my body broken in the wreck.” As a flight of rockets burst overhead into swooping, shrilling phoenixes, trailing fire, he drew down the silken hose, revealing the scars still seaming his mended legs.