by Martha Wells
It had taken an hour or more to get them to this point. Ronsarde had a special pass that allowed him to enter the palace at any time of the day or night, for the purpose of consulting with the Captains of the Queen’s Guard and the Royal Guard, and since it named the bearer only as a "senior officer of the Prefecture" he could still use it to get in without alerting anyone to his identity. It had been left in the desk in his study in his apartment on Avenue Fount, which was sure to be under observation by the constables. Cusard had had to burgle the apartment to get it, going in through the attic to avoid capture himself. And it had taken Ronsarde some time to assume his disguise.
He had used hairpieces to alter the shapes of his beard and mustache and applied an unobtrusive scar just above the left eye that still served to focus the observer’s attention. In clothes that fit the role and with the bruises and cuts from the fighting outside the prison covered with makeup, he looked an entirely different person.
He stood carefully now, folding the pass and tucking it away in his coat pocket. Everyone had had to admire that document, which was only a sheet of good quality stationery finely written with the Queen’s own hand. "A damn shame there’s not time to get old Besim to make a copy for us," Cusard had commented sotto-voce to Madeline. "Never know when it would come in handy." The original is coming in damn handy now, Madeline thought. To Ronsarde she said, "You did agree now. You’re going to go in, get Nicholas, and get out, and no appealing to anyone official for help, correct?" I sound daft, she thought. This is the palace, for God’s sake. She reminded herself they had broken out of Vienne prison earlier today, but then Nicholas had done that before, if not under quite so spectacular circumstances.
"I shall do as I think best," Pvonsarde agreed complacently. "An appeal to Captain Giarde of the Queen’s Guard would be a last resort, of course."
Cusard groaned, and Reynard and Madeline exchanged a look. Crack stood like a stone, but his jaw muscles tensed. Even Doctor Halle rubbed his face and sighed. Reynard said, tightly, "I thought we had agreed—"
Ronsarde held up a hand. "I will do nothing that endangers our mission—"
"Our mission?" Cusard commented to Crack. "What about us?"
"—but I will not fail to take any opportunity that presents itself." Ronsarde’s gaze went to Madeline. The ebony cane he carried was no prop, he needed it to walk, but the prospect of action seemed to have cured him of any other injury. He said, "I will find him, my dear. I swear it to you."
Madeline closed her eyes briefly, wishing she was religious enough to appeal to something supernatural, either of the old gods or the new, without feeling like a hypocrite. She and Reynard had argued over this while Ronsarde was assuming his disguise, but Madeline could think of no other way to proceed, and when pressed, neither could Reynard. She said, "Just remember that if this ends with all of us spending the rest of our lives in prison, he won’t thank you for it."
Impatiently, Halle said, "Just get on with it, old man, you’re driving everyone to distraction."
Ronsarde gave him an aggrieved look and adjusted the tilt of his hat. "Please, I’m concentrating." He nodded cordially to them all and walked out into the square.
There was nothing else to try, Madeline reminded herself. She didn’t like the way Ronsarde was leaning so heavily on the cane, but he might be doing it intentionally, to alter his customary step and mannerisms, which was the essential part of any effective disguise.
"He won’t make it," Reynard said, voicing it for all of them. Madeline had never seen him so worried and it wasn’t helping her nerves any, either.
But Doctor Halle said calmly, "Oh yes, he will. He helped them work out all their guard procedures several years ago and he knows the palace intimately. If anyone can break it, he can."
Reynard pressed his lips together and didn’t appear convinced. He motioned for Madeline to step back from the others and when they had drawn a short distance away, he said, "I’m acquainted with Captain Giarde. He was in the First Cavalry before he was appointed to court and we were both stationed in the Bahkri."
"Well?" Madeline prompted.
"Well, he’s a bastard, but he’s a very discerning bastard. If Ronsarde encounters him, he will be extremely difficult to fool." Reynard eyed her a moment, his expression a little sardonic. "Is there something I haven’t been told, Madeline?"
"Yes." Madeline rubbed her face wearily. She was tired of secrets. She was tired, period. "But it’s not something you’re going to care much about, if you understand me."
"But it’s something others would care about?" Reynard persisted.
"Yes." She hesitated, then let out her breath in resignation. "Nicholas is related to a noble family who happen to be rather famous traitors to the Crown."
"That can’t be all, surely? I’m related to a noble family of rather famous drunkards and it never hurt my standing at court. When I had one, that is."
"They weren’t your run-of-the-mill traitors. Nicholas is related to the Alsenes, as in Denzil Alsene."
"Oh. That traitor. The traitor, I should say." Reynard’s brows drew together as he turned over the implications. "Is there still an interdict about Alsenes leaving the old duchy? He’s not committing a crime simply by being in the city, is he?"
"No, that was apparently revoked almost fifty years ago. But . . . it doesn’t look good."
"No. No, I suppose it doesn’t." Reynard looked down the dark street after Ronsarde. "Damn."
Nicholas had waited a long, tense hour, during which the guards had never left their posts outside the door and he had become increasingly frustrated. Then he heard steps out in the hall and the lock turning. He moved warily to the back of the room, but the man who entered wasn’t Fallier. It was the guard lieutenant who had helped capture him.
The man closed the door deliberately behind him. Smiling, he took a seat in the chair at the battered table, saying, "I hope you find your quarters comfortable?"
"Comfortable enough," Nicholas replied. He folded his arms and eyed his visitor thoughtfully. He was a large man, strongly built, armed with a dress sword and a serviceable pistol. He obviously thought himself secure enough from an unarmed, slightly built man. "I only wish I knew why I’ve been brought here."
The lieutenant said, "Perhaps I could tell you, if you were to tell me who you are and why Rahene Fallier is so interested in you."
Ah, then you don’t know either, Nicholas thought. He looked at the man’s sly, curious face and a plan sprang to mind, complete in practically every detail. He took a deep breath, looking away as if about to reveal some uncomfortable truth, and said, "I’m his bastard son."
The lieutenant stared, then tried to hide his astonishment and appear offhand. "Not surprising."
Save me from amateur schemers, Nicholas thought dryly. If everything he understood from his checkered family history was true, then this man didn’t stand a chance among the practiced plotters at work in the royal court. He said, "My mother is. . . ." The Queen was too young, in fact she was several years younger than himself, so that wouldn’t do at all. Ah, perfect. ". . . . the Countess Winrie."
The lieutenant swore under his breath. The Countess Winrie had been a prostitute famous for the most outrageous practices before she had persuaded the aging but still hale Count to marry her. He had died a year or so after the marriage, leaving the wealthy Countess the unofficial leader of the demi monde and a perpetual thorn in the side of good society. "But. . . ." The lieutenant was frowning in concentration.
"You see what this would do to his reputation," Nicholas prompted. He began to pace again, slowly, getting his quarry used to the sight of him moving about. "If it were to become known. . . ."
"Ah." The lieutenant nodded sagely, finally picking up on the innuendo. "You’ve been threatening to come forward and he has been buying your silence."
Nicholas paused and glanced back at the man, managing a trapped expression, and swallowed as if in a dry throat. He wondered what Madeline would make of thi
s performance. She would probably say something sarcastic about the quality of my audience, he thought. "I have no idea what he intends to do to me," he hinted hopefully.
The lieutenant assumed an expression of smug knowledge, which Nicholas felt safe in presuming meant he didn’t have the slightest notion either. The man tipped his chair back, propping his booted feet up on the table, and said callously, "Keep you out of the way permanently, I suppose."
Nicholas felt a flash of anger on behalf of this persona he had just constructed, this powerless young bastard at the mercy of his sorcerer father, and reminded himself not to get too involved in the role. He said, "My father has paid me a great deal of money over the past years and the Countess, who feels some fondness toward me, is still quite wealthy. Anyone who helped me regain my freedom would be well rewarded."
The lieutenant’s eyes shifted. He said, "I would need some guarantees. You can’t expect me to trust you."
Nicholas read his expression easily. The man only wanted information to give him a possible advantage over Fallier; he wasn’t quite foolish enough to oppose the Court Sorcerer directly. "Of course not," Nicholas agreed readily. "Perhaps if I show you this, you will realize my sincerity." He approached the table, reaching into his pocket.
The lieutenant watched him, trying to look arch but failing to cover his obvious greed. His eyes dropped to the hand Nicholas was withdrawing from the pocket of his old coat and Nicholas kicked the chair leg. Overbalanced, the lieutenant fell backward.
Nicholas stepped in and punched him, knocking the man’s head back against the wall. The thumps hadn’t gone unnoticed by the guards and he heard keys working frantically in the lock. He snatched the pistol from the dazed lieutenant’s holster and leapt over the tangled heap of body and chair on the floor, putting his back to the wall just as the door flew open.
He pointed the gun at the lieutenant and both guards stumbled to a halt. "Any closer and I’ll shoot him, gentlemen. And please don’t call out," Nicholas said evenly.
The lieutenant gasped and made a garbled noise, trying to push himself up, and Nicholas kicked the supporting hand out from under him. He motioned with the gun. "Move away from the door, please."
The two men glanced at each other, then obeyed. As they moved out of the way, Nicholas stepped quickly to the door and backed out into the corridor. Two heavy bodies struck the door as soon as it swung to, pounding, on it and shouting, but Nicholas was already turning the key in the lock. Experimentally he took a couple of steps away, then smiled. The noise the captives were making was inaudible more than two steps away from the door; that would buy him some time at least. Nicholas pocketed the key and strode down the corridor away from the main staircase, turning the corner into the cross corridor. This was a barracks and there wouldn’t be an unguarded servants’ door; he would have to go out the way he had come in. Running now, he passed more closed doors, an open arch into an old practice room filled with wooden fencing dummies, more passages branching toward the back of the building. Around another corner he found a second staircase, smaller and less ornate than the one in the main hall. He hurried down it, keeping his steps quiet.
The stairwell led down into an anteroom, with an archway opening onto the main area. Nicholas paused at the edge of the arch, back against the wall, leaning around to get a view of the hall. The number of men there had greatly increased. Most were in Royal Guard uniforms but a few were in civilian dress. Nicholas cursed under his breath. Of course, that was why the lieutenant had time to question me. The guard was changing, with men going off-duty and their replacements coming on. The confusion might make it easier—if Fallier was trying to keep his capture quiet, most of the men coming on duty might not have been informed there was a prisoner in the barracks. What he needed to do now was steal a uniform coat and. . . . Nicholas’s attention was suddenly caught by a man in civilian dress standing with his back to him, apparently studying the flags of old decommissioned guard troops displayed along the gallery, and engaged in animated conversation with a Royal Guard lieutenant. For a moment he thought he had recognized him. But it couldn‘t be, Nicholas told himself. Not here.
The man turned and Nicholas stared suspiciously at his face, his clothes. It could very well be, he thought grimly. The man was limping, he was the right height, the right build, about the right age, despite possible cosmetic alterations to his hair and features and— and he is using an ebony cane with a carved ivory handle exactly like the one Reynard brought back from Parscia. Nicholas resisted the urge to knock his head against the wall. Damn them.
There was a shout from the gallery and one of the guards Nicholas had left locked in his temporary prison careened down the stairs and ran across the hall, heading for the outside doors. The off-duty guards watched him go, some calling out questions. He’s going for Fallier, Nicholas thought. He must have ordered them to keep my capture secret.
As the men in the hall went about their business, Nicholas snatched off his cap and ducked out into the milling crowd, keeping his head down, and managed to fetch up against the old man with the cane. "Were you looking for me, sir?" he asked, in a Riverside accent.
Inspector Ronsarde actually had the audacity to smile. "There you are, my good fellow." He turned to the Guard lieutenant standing at his elbow. This lieutenant was older than the man who had helped with Nicholas’s capture and his gaze was sharper. "I sent my driver here to see if he could locate Sir Diandre. No luck then?"
This last was addressed to Nicholas, who shook his head and said, "No sir, no one here’s heard tell of him." He kept his head ducked and fervently hoped Ronsarde had chosen the name of a man who was on leave or otherwise inaccessible.
"Ah, well, then. We’ll keep at it. Simply must find him. . . ."
"Have you tried the Gallery Wing, sir? There is a ball tonight and he may be attending," the lieutenant said. He was choosing his words carefully and his expression was a little guarded. He did not appear an easy man to deceive. Ronsarde must have concocted quite a story to get this far.
"That’s a thought. Yes, if he isn’t here. . . . I shall try there immediately then, thank you very much." There was a flicker of suspicion in the man’s eyes. Then Ronsarde paused and with a self-possession that Nicholas would have admired had he been less angry, said, "Could you accompany me or does duty call?"
The suspicion vanished and the lieutenant consulted his pocket watch. "No, I’m afraid I must stay here. I can assign someone to guide you if—"
"Oh, no, don’t bother, I can find my way on my own. I was here for the Queen’s Birthday, you know. Thank you again for your assistance. . . ."
The expostulations and good-byes seemed to go on forever. Nicholas felt sweat running down his back. But finally Ronsarde exchanged one last handshake with his new friend and they made their way down the length of the hall. Nicholas stayed behind the Inspector, who kept to a steady pace despite his limp and the need to hurry. They were almost to the arch of the stone-walled foyer when a Guard corporal stepped forward to accost Ronsarde. "Sir, are you—"
Ronsarde flourished a folded paper. "Here to see Captain Giarde, young man."
At the sight of the seal on the document and the name of the Queen’s Guard Captain, the corporal backed away, saluting for good measure.
Nicholas didn’t breathe, didn’t dare lift his head until they were out of the main doors and down the steps. Once they were in the cold wind-swept court and out of range of the lamps, Nicholas grabbed Ronsarde’s arm and dragged him to a sheltered corner. "What are you doing here?" he demanded.
"Looking for you, my boy. Really, what did you think? I would’ve been here sooner, but it took me some time to find where they had taken you. Discovering it was the old barracks was somewhat anticlimactic; I had anticipated having to free you from the holding cells under the Gate Tower."
"I’m so sorry you were disappointed," Nicholas said, through gritted teeth. "I risk everything to get you out of that damn prison and you come here?"
"Of course." Ronsarde glanced around the court. There were groups of people crossing between the shadowy hulks of the buildings around them, laughing and talking, some bearing lanterns. They didn’t look like search parties but in the dark it was hard to tell. The Inspector asked, "Do you know where you are?"
"Not particularly."
"You were held in the old Queen’s Guard barracks, or what’s left of it. It was expanded when the Royal Guard was chartered."
"Ordinarily I have a deep appreciation for historical curiosities but at the present moment—"
"And that," Ronsarde continued, pointedly, "is the Albon Tower, which was enlarged to join the Old Palace, destroying much of the security provided by the old siege walls and bastions, but allowing us to make our way through the lower floors to the new section of the palace grounds, where there is a ball being given for the Lord Mayor in the Gallery Wing. Most of the guests will have left by now but St. Anne’s Gate should still be relatively busy, and they will not be searching for you there."
"Then let’s go."
The tower only lay across the court but Nicholas felt exposed and vulnerable as they made their way toward it. There was one guard on the door, standing under a lamp suspended from the mouth of a stone gargoyle. Ronsarde displayed his pass again and they were waved on.
Once inside they found themselves in a large drafty hall, the curved ceiling supported by heavy square pillars. The place had an almost unused air and there were only a few lamps to light the way through. Ronsarde hesitated, getting his bearings, then said, "This way," and strode forward.
They were almost to the center of the large room when the doors behind them crashed open. Nicholas spun, drawing the pistol. There were Guards pouring into the hall behind them. Ronsarde grabbed his arm and said, "No, it’s too late."
