Congress of Secrets

by Stephanie Burgis

  Peter would have to agree to Michael’s plan, whatever it was … and wait until the first available moment to turn on him.

  “Charles?” Caroline whispered.

  Held within Pergen’s grip, she could turn only her head to look toward the secret passageway, her vision half-blocked by Pergen’s shoulder. But the figure she saw in the dark opening was instantly recognizable.

  “Lady Wyndham.” Charles Weston gave a stiff bow. His face was deadly pale.

  Caroline forced the words out of her suddenly tight throat. “How much did Pergen offer you?”

  “Oh, we didn’t need to bribe Mr. Weston with money,” Count Pergen murmured. “You needn’t fret yourself imagining that a mere rise in pay would have secured his loyalty.”

  “I rather thought I had that already.” Caroline fought to keep her voice light. “What did you offer him instead, then?”

  “Knowledge,” Charles said. “Power.”

  “And revenge,” Pergen added. “Don’t be shy, Mr. Weston. She might as well know the full truth at the outset.”

  “Revenge on me, you mean?” Caroline asked.

  Pergen’s head tipped in a nod, trailing shadows.

  Charles’s face twisted. Perhaps he meant to look nobly defiant, Caroline thought. To her eyes, it looked like the grimace of an angry child.

  “You tricked me!” he said.

  “Perhaps,” Caroline said. “But you also tricked yourself.” She met his gaze and held it. “Was it truly worth such a betrayal as this?”

  Charles looked down, his expression mutinous. Pergen answered for him.

  “I’ve already found Mr. Weston an apt pupil. And a useful one. This tube, for instance …” Pergen turned it gently from side to side. “Your own blood, he tells me. And I find …” He glanced pointedly at the visible bump beneath her left glove, where a discreet white bandage was still wrapped around her forearm. “I believe him. Shall we attempt an experiment?”

  “Charles?” Caroline stared at his downturned face, searching for any sign of recognition. “Are you really going to help him with this?”

  Charles looked back up and met her gaze. His face was hard and set.

  “I will,” he said. “And I’ll enjoy every moment of it.”

  Unease trickled down Michael’s spine as Riesenbeck’s face softened into a frown of simple confusion. Open suspicion had made sense, after the actor’s earlier experiences; to show signs of softening so soon, before Michael had even attempted any persuasion, hinted at either a lack of common sense or else something more sinister.

  Still, it was too late to turn back now.

  Michael began to put on his most confident smile, then stopped. Nothing would do now except for utter sincerity … the one thing he hadn’t had much practice at, over the years.

  “We’ve both been left in the same straits,” he said, without preamble. “You heard what that policeman told you. Catching me was no one’s priority but yours—and you were being used like a puppet on a string, to reel me in as an added bonus before being locked up again yourself.”

  “Why would they do that?” Riesenbeck asked.

  “Why? You could probably tell me better than I could guess myself, having spent only five minutes in conversation with Count Pergen. But from what I’ve been told of him …” The memory of Caroline’s broken voice choked him for a moment.

  What Caroline might be undergoing even now …

  Michael’s voice flattened with the effort of holding back his panic as he repeated the information she had given him in the hours before they’d left for this evening’s disaster. “Count Pergen feeds on fear,” he said. “Or … something within him feeds upon it, at any rate. I haven’t seen it happen myself, but I understand that it’s part of how he draws out your spirit, for his own use or for another’s.”

  Real vulnerability flashed across Riesenbeck’s face for a moment, before it was suppressed. “That—does fit with what I experienced.”

  “Mm?” Michael paused, waiting to see if Riesenbeck would expand upon it. After a moment of taut silence, Michael continued. “To reel you inexorably back into his clutches, fresh with energy from a few days’ grace, but even more frightened this time for having come so close, as you’d thought, to escaping … That sounds to me like what he might consider excellent fodder for his needs.”

  Was it only pretense that sent such mixed emotions shifting across Riesenbeck’s face? Michael forged forward, his chest tightening. This has to work.

  “If you try to escape, you’ll have abandoned your company, and you might not even be allowed out through the city walls.”

  “And you?” Riesenbeck met his eyes squarely. “Why not escape now in your fine carriage? They wouldn’t know to turn you back. I couldn’t even give them the name that you’re using.”

  “I …” Michael drew a deep breath. It was time. Time to drop all the protective layers he’d built throughout the years and give in to the inevitable.

  “I can’t leave,” he said. “Not until I rescue someone who’s being held captive now, just as you were before.”

  “What?” Riesenbeck stared at him. “You can’t think to break into those cells below the Hofburg. The guards, the stone walls—”

  “I couldn’t do it with a sword,” Michael agreed. “But I could do it with words, if they were the right ones.”

  “You …” Riesenbeck shook his head, letting out a pained half-laugh. “You think you can talk the imperial guards and the secret police into releasing your friend, only to please you?”

  “No,” Michael said steadily. “I think I can rescue my friend, you, and your entire company … but only if you’re willing to help.”

  As Peter listened to the other man’s plan, his thoughts whirled as quickly and uncontrollably as a flight of pigeons rising from Prague’s Old Town square.

  He had been an actor all his life, and he could swear Michael wasn’t acting now.

  No, Michael was going back for love, not for profit. He was willing to run the greatest of physical and supernatural risks, purely to save someone he cared about from torture and death. To choose to face that creature himself …

  It was the most heroic thing Peter had ever heard of in real life. It was genuinely worthy of a play.

  Perhaps it was a ruse, after all. And yet …

  Peter remembered a cold room and a voice hissing into his ears through a muffling hood. Every bone in his body wanted to freeze in terror at the memory. He’d thought he could never risk going back to that—and that no one else could ever know, or understand, how it had felt. How it had melted away every other consideration but self-preservation, turning all the high ideals he’d ever acted out onstage into mere words and empty gestures.

  But now …

  Peter could have dismissed promises of a fortune or bribes of fabulous appointments at foreign courts. No matter how strong the ring of truth, he could even have dismissed Michael’s suspicions of the minister of secret police’s motivations.

  But it seemed, after all, that there was one thing in life that Peter couldn’t resist, no matter how hard he tried.

  “I swore I wouldn’t try to be a hero anymore,” he said.

  Michael’s shoulders slumped with relief. He smiled crookedly at Peter. “Think of it as your greatest role.”

  “Mr. Weston, why don’t you place her … ah, there. Yes, that should do nicely.” Count Pergen pointed at the black settee that was set against the wall.

  Caroline braced herself for the handover. She couldn’t escape pain or even death—not while Pergen kept her blood—but she might be able to escape this, at least. Better to die three blocks from here, and free, than be a helpless prisoner again. The moment when Pergen passed her to Charles would be the one chance she would have. She counted down as Charles crossed the room toward her, his face full of guilty defiance.

  Three … two …

  “I should add,” Pergen added calmly, “that she always tries to escape, no matter how impossi
ble the circumstances. Do make certain you have a very firm hold on both her arms.” He kept his own grip as tight as an iron vise around Caroline’s forearm as Charles grasped her from behind.

  “I have her,” Charles said grimly. His hands clenched around her upper arms, fingers digging into flesh.

  “No, no, that leaves her hands free to attack you, Mr. Weston. Clearly, you haven’t had much experience dealing with recalcitrant subjects.”

  “I’ll learn,” Charles said.

  His hands felt damp with sweat. Caroline shifted slightly, testing his grip, and he clamped his fingers around her wrists with excruciating pressure. She forced back a gasp of pain.

  “There,” Pergen said. “That looks far better. Now.”

  He released Caroline’s arm.

  Now.

  Caroline lunged sideways, throwing all her weight into the move—even if it broke her wrists, anything for freedom. She felt Charles lurch off-balance behind her. She kicked his shin, hard, and he shouted with surprise and pain. His hands loosened. She started forward—

  And Pergen’s fist smashed into her face, knocking her backward. Charles’s arms closed bruisingly around her.

  “As I said,” Pergen murmured. “She always tries. I don’t know why. She’s quite bright in every other way.” He nodded to the settee. “Set her down there, and we’ll begin.”

  CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE

  It took a teeth-grittingly long fifteen-minute detour to find a spot to wash the filth from Michael’s face, hair, and clothes. In the end, though, he was dripping but reasonably clean as he slid into the glittering crowd that surged across the square between the Hofburg and the Burgtheater.

  “Prince Kalishnikoff.” The Prince de Ligne raised his eyebrows as Michael fell into step beside him. His keen gaze took in Michael’s disheveled appearance, but he only said, “Are you quite well, Your Highness? You were called away very suddenly, it seemed.” His tone was courteous, as ever … but unmistakably lacking in warmth.

  “I’d like to tell you the truth of it, actually. And you as well, sir,” Michael added to the Comte de La Garde-Chambonas, who walked on De Ligne’s other side. “Might I beg a moment of time from both of you gentlemen, before we enter the theater?”

  “Well …” De Ligne’s eyebrows rose skeptically. He glanced at the comte, who frowned.

  Michael smiled ruefully, smoothing down his wet hair. “I can imagine that you might be reasonably reluctant after the absurd figure I must have cut in the Great Hall. But I should like to explain that to you both.”

  De Ligne regarded him through half-lidded eyes. “I didn’t see you return to the Great Hall after your … ah … curious manner of departure.”

  “No, you did not,” Michael admitted. “Nor …” He lowered his voice. “Nor did you see Lady Wyndham again, I believe.”

  De Ligne’s eyebrows drew down into a frown. He came to a halt, leaning on his walking stick. Elderly or not, the ferocity of his military reputation was suddenly mirrored in his expression. “And what exactly do you mean to imply by that statement, sir?”

  The Comte de La Garde-Chambonas edged closer, letting the rest of the crowd pass him by. Not only avidity for gossip but also genuine concern showed on his plump face. “Is something amiss with Lady Wyndham?”

  “That,” said Michael softly, “is exactly what I’d like to discuss with you.”

  “There you are!”

  Peter entered the Burgtheater’s backstage and found his gathered actors awaiting him.

  “My friends!” Peter bowed splendidly. “Did you all enjoy your grand evening of socializing?”

  “Oh, so much,” Marta murmured. Her lips curved in a satisfied smile. Josephine and the other actresses chimed in their own agreements, while Karl shrugged his reluctant satisfaction.

  “Good, good. I certainly heard admiration for all of you flowing in from all directions! In fact …” Peter drew out the pause. “In fact, you were so very admired … that I’ve agreed on your behalf to take on a challenge.”

  “Challenge?” Karl scowled. “What sort of challenge?”

  “A challenge of skill, my friend. Certain royal visitors pointed out to me that the play we’ve planned to present to them is one we’ve already performed in the Theater an der Wien for merchants, newspapermen, and any drunken lout from the street who could afford to stand in the stalls. To repeat it tonight, unaltered, would be to name the collected royalty and nobility of Europe as worthy of no more than the table scraps left behind by their inferiors.”

  “But we’ve only rehearsed—” Josephine began.

  “My actors,” Peter said, “can improvise. You’ve performed tragedies, comedies, and romances. You have memorized and embodied the words of the greatest playwrights of the age. And now, tonight—”

  “It would have to be based on the play we meant to perform,” Marta said thoughtfully. “To give structure to the drama.”

  “You’ve taken the very words from my mouth,” Peter said. “That was my own idea as well.”

  “We only have fifteen minutes before the play is to begin,” Karl snarled. “How many changes do you expect us to make?”

  “Only a very few,” Peter said. “But you’re quite right to ask that, Karl, as your character will be the most affected. In fact, you’ll need to think hard about whether you can manage it at all, for I foresee …” He drew a breath, letting the moment linger. “An entirely new scene for him, full of supernatural vileness and cruelty, at the very beginning of the play—and complete with a new, added monologue of rage.”

  “A … new scene?” Karl repeated. He blinked, twice. “With an entirely new monologue to be improvised?”

  “Indeed,” Peter said. “But do, please, understand, my friend, that you can tell me now if it’s too much to ask of you. After all …” He sighed sympathetically. “It would add at least fifteen minutes to your character’s time on stage.”

  “Oh, my dear,” Marta breathed. Her face lit up with a mixture of loving pride and blatant envy.

  Karl’s harsh face did not break into a smile. But Peter could have sworn he saw a glow begin underneath the skin.

  “Of course I can do it,” Karl said curtly. “And if it pleases the royal audience …”

  “It is the particular desire of His Highness Prince Kalishnikoff of Kernova-as-was,” Peter said. “And he assures me that the entire audience will be most struck by his idea. Let me tell you exactly what he proposes …”

  Only a few aristocrats still lingered in the street outside the Burgtheater as Michael finished his story. The Comte de La Garde-Chambonas let out scattered gasps and exclamations of horror throughout; the Prince de Ligne said nothing at all, but in the shadows, he looked suddenly stooped with age and weariness.

  At the end, De Ligne took a deep breath and spoke for the first time. “I suppose you haven’t any proof to present to us?”

  “Other than the fact that, as you know for yourself, the emperor returned from their meeting and Lady Wyndham did not … no. Peter Riesenbeck can corroborate, if you ask him, but I expect we won’t be able to find him now until the end of the play. And if you don’t choose to assist me …” Michael tasted bitterness. Never before had so much rested on a single gamble. “Then he and all his troupe will undoubtedly be arrested for their performance at the end of it, and I will have sentenced them to horrors for their loyalty.”

  The comte shook his head, like a dog shaking off water. “You cannot expect us—no. No! Such a story could not be true! Oh, everyone knows the secret police of Vienna are a fearsome force—one knows better than to speak of politics where others can hear, or else be deported from the city … and of course there are spies everywhere … but this—that the emperor himself would employ so vile and unnatural a force—! Even if one believed it could work,” he added hastily, “which is evident nonsense and superstition, but—”

  “Oh, it could work,” the Prince de Ligne said softly. The other men both turned to him, and the elderly prince�
��s lips twitched in a smile of bitter amusement. “You are both of you—yes, even you, Kalishnikoff—too young to remember the days when alchemy was an accepted—and respected—facet of Viennese society, before our current moralizing era.”

  The comte said, “Well of course there were natural philosophers of the last century who may have called themselves alchemists, but—”

  “The demonstrations I saw, in the grandest Viennese salons and country houses, were convincing,” De Ligne said heavily. “To say the least. I had thought … I had hoped …”

  “Yes?” the comte prompted.

  De Ligne expelled his breath in a long sigh. “I am not at all surprised.” He shook his head slowly. “I saw Pergen push old Emperor Joseph further and further from his Enlightenment doctrines into paranoia and rage and fear of his own populace. And if you had seen the mad way Joseph taunted Francis as a youth, calling him a weakling and a fool, not fit even to be trained as emperor … Francis must have been ripe indeed for Pergen’s flattery and persuasion … on this as well as so many other fronts.” De Ligne’s lips compressed. “Our Emperor Francis has always most desired to be proven strong.”

  “Yet you stood up to him once before,” Michael said. “Lady Wyndham told me how you published letters that criticized him for his policies and gave him the kind of critique all nobles were once allowed to offer their emperor, before these days of public silence and submission.”

  “I did,” De Ligne said. “And I came very close to losing my position at court entirely. I lost many chances for financial advancement through that reckless act … which is more than I confessed to Lady Wyndham, I’m afraid.”

  Michael thought back to his own visit to the Prince de Ligne’s house—the surprisingly poor array of food, the furniture that seemed ready to fall apart at the slightest touch—and stifled a groan. Bitter reality, crashing against his plans … He’d wondered at the time how a field marshal of the Austrian Empire could have been allowed to sink into such genteel poverty despite international fame, proven loyalty, and public bravery. Now he knew.