Congress of Secrets

by Stephanie Burgis

  Still … Michael moistened his lips. There must be another angle he could use, another gamble he could play. There had to be. With every moment that he wasted, Caroline might be suffering torments he could barely even imagine. If he could only think of another way …

  “If you don’t help her, she will die,” Michael said finally. It was too blunt—it had no courtly polish—but he found that he had none left to give. “She is already a captive. She may already be undergoing torture.” He met the Prince de Ligne’s eyes. “If you, too, turn your back on her now …”

  “But what else is there to do?” The comte’s face shone with perspiration and distress. “Of course one would like to help her. But to speak open criticism of the emperor’s actions—to stand against him—!”

  “Then you’ll be asked to leave the Congress and go back to France, or Switzerland, or one of your numerous other homes,” the Prince de Ligne said dryly. “A tragedy indeed. And yet … perhaps exactly what your memoir needs, my friend, to supply a proper sting? And to be devoured by every possible reader, all across the Continent?”

  Michael closed his eyes for a moment of relief so acute it was nearly a physical pain. When he opened them again, he found the Prince de Ligne regarding him with a small smile.

  “Touché,” the prince said. “I am an old man, Kalishnikoff … or whatever your true name may be.”

  “Steinhüller,” Michael said, on a sigh. “Michael Steinhüller.”

  “Sir.” The prince inclined his head in a stately nod. “The turn of the century has been anything but a rousing success for myself and my family fortunes. I’ve lost my family home, my wealth, and nearly everything else. If I am not to lose my self-respect as well …” He sighed and gestured a graceful invitation in a turn of the wrist that Michael recognized from century-old paintings. “You may tell us what plan you’ve devised. But first …” His keen eyes narrowed. “I believe there is one other person who might find your story of profitable interest.”

  Michael gave a return nod as grave as the prince’s own. “I had thought of that as well.”

  The galleries of the Burgtheater, alight with thousands of candles, rose dizzyingly high above the stage, showcasing level upon level of the aristocrats and royalty of Europe. Crammed together in the thin, tall building—the most cramped theater Peter had ever performed in, as well as the most glorious—their glittering tiaras and golden Orders of distinction joined the blaze of the candles. The light they flashed blinded Peter for a moment as he looked up at them through the crack in the thick velvet stage curtains.

  He didn’t look away, even as his vision blurred. He didn’t want to lose even an instant of appreciation.

  He stood on the stage of the Habsburgs’ own Burgtheater, at the center of the empire. Even Périgord himself had never achieved such a goal. But Peter stood here with his own company gathered behind him, waiting for him to give the signal.

  And—it had to be said—he was playing the role of a lifetime. Quite possibly it would be the last role of his lifetime. If it was …

  Peter’s vision cleared, adjusting to the glare, and revealed the massed glory before him.

  “Don’t confuse yourself with the heroes you play onstage.” His old master had snarled that at him so many times that Peter had finally come to believe it.

  But they had both been wrong.

  Peter stepped through the curtains, and the entire theater hushed for him.

  “Your Majesties and Highnesses,” Peter declaimed. He heard his own voice roll through the auditorium, pitched to carry all the way to the highest gallery. “My Lords and Ladies. Ladies and gentlemen. May I present the Riesenbeck troupe at your most humble service.”

  He sank into a deep bow as a thousand pairs of hands clapped applause.

  Paul Périgord might never know the truth of Peter’s final success, but Peter found that, somehow, that no longer mattered.

  He had already won.

  Michael raised one hand to hold back the men who stirred restlessly behind him. The sound of applause rippled through the Burgtheater, bleeding through the thin walls of the royal boxes before them.

  “Not yet,” he breathed.

  They stood in the narrow outer corridor that ran behind the central boxes on the second floor. With the doors to the crowded, brightly lit boxes shut, the corridor itself was dark and silent, lit only by a single brace of candles. All the rest had already been extinguished in preparation for the performance about to begin.

  “Dare I ask,” the French foreign minister murmured, sotto voce, “if there is in fact any compelling reason for us to wait any longer? Realizing that the further into the performance we wait, the harder it will be to extract the emperor from his company without raising any number of eyebrows and suspicions in the rest of the audience?”

  The Prince de Ligne sighed but remained silent, leaving all direction to Michael, while the comte watched with wide, interested eyes—taking notes for his memoirs, no doubt.

  Michael gritted his teeth. “Have faith,” he whispered. “There is a reason, but I haven’t time to explain it now.”

  “Oh, indeed, I imagined there must be a reason of some sort. And yet …” Talleyrand paused delicately. “You will forgive me, Prince Kalishnikoff, if I wonder whether faith is necessarily as sensible an option as—”

  The applause died down, and Talleyrand was forced to break off or else be heard through the thin walls. The ambassador subsided with a meaningful glare. The near silence was broken only by the dull roar of audience murmurs. Then a deep voice spoke, rising from a low growl to a dramatic torrent of rage.

  Karl. Michael relaxed. “It’s nearly time,” he whispered. “Only a few more minutes left. But the emperor must see this first scene performed.”

  Seated in the imperial box between the tsarina of Russia and his own intermittently coughing wife, Emperor Francis had to grit his teeth to hold back his seething rage. His fingers tapped a rapid drumbeat against the sides of his chair until his wife reached across and stilled his hand.

  He glared at her in return until she looked away. But it was not Ludovica’s face that he saw in his mind’s eye.

  “You are worth even less than your lackey.”

  No one had ever dared speak such words to him. The contempt in her voice …

  His fingers were beating against his chair arm again. He stilled them himself, before his wife could give another one of her pointed hints.

  She didn’t seem to have noticed, though. Francis realized that Ludovica’s focused attention was, for once, entirely caught by the action on stage, rather than the more vital social action that went on within the boxes of the theater. The more impressionable tsarina, on his other side, was nearly hanging over the railings in her eagerness for the drama. Even Tsar Alexander, who was half-deaf and had little fondness for the theater, was watching the action with a slight frown.

  “I can harness the darkness for you, my king,” the actor onstage said, in insinuating, slippery tones. He leaned over the crowned actor. “No one will ever know.”

  Francis blinked. He leaned forward, focusing his attention.

  “Then let us use prisoners and street children,” the other actor—the king—responded. “No one will care what becomes of such as them.”

  “But of course. Your wisdom shall be our guide. And if ever any man dare question you or whisper the truth about your rule—”

  “Then he shall be the first to be arrested,” the king declared. “And I shall feed from his life force, with your help.”

  His advisor bowed deeply. “Your wish is my command.”

  Francis jerked back in his seat, dragging the heavy chair backward across the carpeted floor. His vision had gone strangely blurry in sudden panic.

  “Francis?” He felt a hand on his arm—his wife, he realized only after he had pulled away from her. He forced himself to focus on her frown. “What’s amiss?” she whispered.

  “Nothing! Nothing. I only—” He looked back to th
e stage. A new actor had been dragged on, his head covered with a sack. The actor-king prepared to draw energy from him, using his advisor’s dark powers.

  Francis twisted around in his seat, almost toppling it. “Damn it, where’s a footman?”

  His wife gestured, and one hurried toward them. “What—?” she began.

  “I want those actors arrested,” Francis snarled to the footman. “Now. All of them!”

  Ludovica gasped. “But Francis—”

  “What have they done?” the tsarina asked. Even she had turned at the news. “Good heavens, it’s only a play. A rather strange play—unusual, truly—but quite fascinating. If—”

  “You seem most distressed, my friend.” Tsar Alexander turned his frown to Francis. Confusion mingled with the dangerous beginnings of suspicion in his heavy voice. “What is it about this play that has had such an effect upon you?”

  Francis shook his head, forcing a smile. “Nothing. I merely … this play does not amuse me.”

  “Then you needn’t hire these actors again,” the tsarina said. “But surely—”

  “You cannot seriously intend to arrest them merely for putting on an unamusing play!” A hacking cough overcame Ludovica, and her slight frame shook, but she stared at him, eyes wide, as she bore through the interruption. “In heaven’s name, Francis, what has come over you?”

  “Nothing!” Francis said. “It was only a jest. I meant nothing by it. In God’s name, would you all stop haranguing me?”

  With a sudden jerk of horror, he realized his voice had risen to a shout. Not only his own companions but everyone in the boxes around them was openly staring at him now. Even on stage, the actors had stumbled in their lines.

  Francis stood up, shoving his chair aside. “I need fresh air!” He shouldered past the footman and out of the box, into the narrow, darkened corridor outside. He slammed the door shut and leaned back against it, drawing a shaking breath.

  A footstep sounded nearby.

  It was only then that he realized he was not alone.

  Michael stepped out in front of the others. “Your Majesty.” He bowed, minimally.

  “You!” The emperor scowled. His gaze skated past Michael to the men who stood behind him. “What—?”

  “I trust you’ve been enjoying the performance?” Michael kept his voice soft with an effort. Looking at the emperor’s long, arrogant face, all Michael wanted to do was lunge for the man’s throat and throttle him until he let Caroline go free.

  Calm, he told himself. At the emperor’s first cry, the corridor would be flooded with guards and outraged guests, and all of Caroline’s chances would be lost. Violence wouldn’t solve anything now. Words, on the other hand …

  “You arranged that performance?” the emperor breathed. He was staring at Michael as a man would stare at a venomous snake.

  “I believe your minister of the secret police arranged this particular performance, actually,” Michael said smoothly. “I did, however, suggest a few changes to the play itself, to make it more appropriate for its audience.”

  “You—!” The emperor cut himself off abruptly, looking at the men who stood behind Michael. “De Ligne. Talleyrand.” He ignored the comte. “What are you doing here with this man?”

  “Supporting him, Your Majesty,” said the Prince de Ligne. His face was ramrod-stiff, his posture rigid with military precision. For the first time since meeting him at the Congress, Michael saw not the charming old bon vivant and raconteur, but the man who had been a prince of the Holy Roman Empire and a field marshal in a dozen Austrian wars. Sorrow tinged De Ligne’s face as he spoke, but his voice was firm. “For the sake of our empire.”

  “And what, precisely, is that supposed to mean?” The emperor whirled around before De Ligne could answer, turning on the French foreign minister. “Talleyrand? Do you care to explain yourself?”

  “I am here for my own king, Your Majesty. And for the good government of Europe,” Talleyrand added gently.

  “‘The good government’—!” The emperor broke off, nearly sputtering. “Good God, have you all gone mad?”

  “We have only just managed to remove one tyrant from his throne, at the expense of millions of lives,” Talleyrand said. “This Congress was intended to restore harmony to Europe … but, in order to do so, it must possess the good faith of the people. Should it be revealed that one tyranny has merely been exchanged for another …”

  “Is that meant to be a threat?” The emperor turned from one man to another. Receiving no response, he jerked back to Michael, pointing a shaking finger. “Are the rest of you aware that this man is an imposter? He’s no more a prince of Kernova than I am!”

  “Less, no doubt,” Michael agreed. “For, unlike yourself, Your Majesty, I am Viennese by birth. I spent my childhood in this city, unlike you. And I saw the lives that were ruined by you and Count Pergen together.”

  “This is absurd.” The emperor reached for the door to the box. “I’ll—”

  “Did you enjoy the scene you just watched in the play?” Michael advanced toward the emperor inexorably, while the others maintained a watchful silence. “Did it bring back fond memories, Your Majesty?”

  “I don’t know what you’re talking about,” the emperor rasped. His hand dropped away from the door, but he did not turn.

  “No? The men beside me do. And unless you release Lady Wyndham and retire Count Pergen in truth, as you retired him officially so long ago, then every other man in Europe shall know it too, within the week.”

  “You must be mad,” the emperor whispered. He turned around slowly. His burning gaze met Michael’s. “You wouldn’t dare—”

  “Your Majesty, you might be able to silence Prince Kalishnikoff,” said De Ligne, “but you will not be able to silence the rest of us so easily.”

  “You wouldn’t dare—”

  “By midnight tonight, letters will go out to every statesman and gossip in Europe.” Michael held the emperor’s gaze. “By the end of the week, all the English Whig papers will be printing their own furious articles about the ungodly and tyrannical practices of the Austrian Empire. How long do you think the English diplomats will be able to maintain ties of alliance with your government once their people have taken to arms?”

  The emperor sucked in a sudden hiss of breath through his teeth.

  Michael watched the other man’s face as he continued. “Without the wealth and power of England on your side in the Congress’s negotiations—”

  “It is not only England that will move against you, Your Majesty,” Talleyrand added, in his dry monotone. “My own king may not have been invited to join your alliance of Great Powers, but the tsar of Russia is a deeply religious man, who would be horrified by such blasphemous practices. And more than that—his boyars have been urging him at every opportunity to take over the gap in power left by Bonaparte’s defeat. He has only been searching for an excuse to seek out more land and power for the Russian Empire and for his desired puppet state in Poland. Had he that excuse to give the international public … the excuse you will have so obligingly handed him in the public outrage sparked all across the Continent …”

  Talleyrand shrugged, a faint smile tugging at his lips. “Russia is an uneasy ally—but a deadly enemy. And, of course, your own Habsburg holdings do happen to sit so conveniently on her borders …”

  Michael held his tongue. All his attention was focused on the emperor’s furious expression.

  “And my memoir!” The Comte de La Garde-Chambonas’s voice came out as a near-squeak, but his face was defiant. “Everyone of consequence will read my memoir and know the truth of this discussion!”

  Red color splotched the emperor of Austria’s hollow cheeks. He spun around to face Michael.

  Applause flooded through the thin walls of the boxes as the first scene of the drama ended outside.

  “At the end of this act, an announcement will be made,” Michael said. “It will either state the truth of this drama, and your own identity wi
thin it … or not.” He shrugged. “All hangs upon the message I give.”

  “You fool,” the emperor breathed. He straightened, squaring his narrow shoulders. “You’re nothing. You haven’t a drop of noble blood in your veins. You’re no more than street scum. I could—”

  “You could crush me in an instant, certainly,” Michael agreed. “You could order me killed and satisfy your pride. Or you could choose to hold your power, reputation, and empire secure for the rest of your reign. Which will it be?”

  Michael held his ground as the emperor advanced on him. “Will you be the infamous tyrant of the moment, despised by all the rest of the world, from the greatest rulers to the lowest readers of the penny papers in London? Or will you swallow your pride, let go of revenge and alchemical deeds, and be respected as a sovereign for the rest of your reign?” He kept his voice pitched low, but in a piercing whisper.

  Every gamble in his life was held in the balance now, in this moment of uncertainty.

  Michael took a deep breath. “The choice is yours to make, Your Majesty.”

  The emperor of Austria looked from one man to another. Through the walls of the boxes, the applause went on and on.

  His shoulders sagged. He spat out the words. “And your terms, gentlemen? Exactly?”

  Talleyrand’s voice was firm. “France’s inclusion in the meetings of the Great Powers, on an equal basis with Austria and the rest.”

  “The dismissal of Count Pergen,” the Prince de Ligne said, with icy precision. “There is to be no more dark alchemy practiced in the heart of this empire.”

  “Absolute amnesty for all the actors who performed in tonight’s play,” Michael said. “They are free to go, they will be allowed to perform elsewhere in the city, and they will be allowed out of the country afterward, with no retribution at any point.”

  “And Prince Kalishnikoff’s freedom as well,” the comte added. He lifted his chin proudly as he met the emperor’s eyes. “If he is arrested or even said to have disappeared, we will all know how to take it, and we shall respond accordingly.”

  “I thank you,” Michael said to the comte. “But most importantly …” He clenched his fists to keep his fingers from shaking now and revealing his full vulnerability at this last, most vital moment. “Lady Wyndham is to be released instantly. Unharmed and free to leave the empire.”