Cold Stone & Ivy Book 2: The Crown Prince (The Empire of Steam)

by H. Leighton Dickson

  “What’s that?” asked Ivy. “What’s going on?”

  “Who, Ivy. Who do you think is going on?”

  “Blast,” she said and together they bolted from the kitchen.

  ***

  Many corridors and sets of stairs from the abbey kitchen to the sanctuary and they pushed against the current of terrified worshipers on their way out. The abbot and monks stopped dead in their tracks. Altogether a fitting image, she thought, as she herself skidded to a halt at the sight before her.

  In front of the High Altar, Sebastien stood like a figure from a holy painting, one eye white as the moon, the other burning with flame, hair and greatcoat whipping in unnatural wind. Fire burned in one hand, a storm of snow and ice in the other. It was as strange as the night in Easterton Frederick Crumb’s sitting room. But here, now, there was something even stranger that stopped her heart and made her question her sanity.

  From opposite sides of this elaborate golden church, two skeletons were trudging toward the Mad Lord, clad in brocade and dripping jewels like blood.

  “Ivy,” said Christien in a very small voice. “Have you ever seen this before?”

  “Never,” she said, equally small.

  There were no words for such a sight. In fact, she wasn’t sure there was breath left in her body. It was like a nightmare. Ghastly, horrific creatures stumbling, jerking across the floor towards the Mad Lord of Lasingstoke. It was all they could do to keep their bones in places as they dragged skeletal legs, losing jewels with each footfall. Linen around their heads flowed with the wind, revealing skulls yellowed and brittle with age.

  From the corner of her eye, she could see the abbot, mouth moving as if in prayer but silent, not a word coming forth. His attention was, like theirs, riveted on the creatures shuffling to the centre of the crossing.

  First one, then the other, they reached skeletal arms toward Sebastien and he reached back, one hand fire, the other snow.

  “Antonio Figliomeni,” he said, his words hollow and echoing. “Pulvis es, et in pulverem reverteris. Dimissus es.”

  Fiery finger met dry bone and suddenly, the man called Antonio Figliomeni burst into flames and the jewels scattered across the floor like rice at a wedding. Ash rose up on the wind, spinning through the cupola of the High Altar until it disappeared through the tiny plate of glass at the very peak. The swaths of brocade dropped to the tile, unscathed.

  Ivy watched, astounded and speechless, as the man she’d kissed this morning turned his attention to the second creature.

  “Nein,” said the abbot. “Nein, nicht die Reliquien!”

  And without regard to skeletons and Mad Lords or other unnatural things, the man rushed forward, his own black robes whipping in the wind. Sebastien looked at him, cocking his head like a dog. He did not touch the second skeleton.

  “Sie ein Kind des Teufels!” the abbot shouted. “A child of the Devil!”

  “Puer ego sum mortis,” said Sebastien in his hollow voice.

  “These relics are sacred! They are martyrs for the faith! You are committing sacrilege!”

  “Et mortui sunt atque percussi.”

  “Stop speaking Latin! It is the language of God!”

  “Mein Gott,” said another voice, and Ivy saw Valerie beside them now, eyes fixed in unbelief. “Is this real?”

  “You’re dreaming,” said Christien. “This is my nightmare. All mine.”

  The abbot moved forward.

  “You have destroyed the holy relic of St. Frederich! Leave St. Clemens in peace, creature, and we shall pray for your forgiveness.”

  “His name is Alberto Tassone from Milan. How can you see him?” He turned, shocked to find others in the church. “Miss Savage? Christien? Can you see him too?”

  She nodded and slowly, the storms in his hands died away. He turned to the relic of St. Clemons (or the skeleton of Alberto Tassone of Milan) and shook his head.

  “I’m sorry,” he said. “I can’t help you.”

  Abruptly, the deadwind died and the creature crumpled to the marble floor, a mass of bones, brocade and rattling jewels. For a long moment, there was silence in the Abbey of Melk.

  Sebastien sighed and sighed again, becoming somehow smaller and more human with each breath.

  Finally, he looked up and she was grateful that at least one eye was brown.

  “I know you do like your coffee in Austria,” he said quietly. “But I would very much like a cup of tea, if that’s not too much trouble.”

  Ivy ran to catch him as he sank to his knees.

  ***

  Mystery in Melk

  Melk Daily News

  Several graves in the Melk cemetery were looted sometime today, said manager, Ernst Grundl. Caskets were pushed open in the familial crypts and human remains have been scattered all across the grounds. The groundskeeper, Ivor Kuhlmann, has been fired for dereliction of duty. Police are continuing to investigate.

  Chapter 14

  Of Controversies, Conspiracies and a Heated Conversation in a Cold Carriage

  It seemed they had worn out their welcome in the Abbey of Melk.

  The entire church had been closed down and they had been ushered out of the sanctuary to the Prelate’s Courtyard. Even a woman of Valerie’s status couldn’t change the abbot’s mind and he had commissioned a carriage from the village to transport them to Vienna. It was snowing again so he had also arranged for extras coats, a flask of black coffee and a blanket for the cab. Now as the coach bumped along the icy roads, Ivy realized they could have used a second blanket. The first was currently over Sebastien’s head, blocking the dead lining the way to Vienna.

  She sighed and looked at her companions across the cab. They had spoken little in the last four hours. Small talk didn’t suit any of them and it just seemed best to leave it rather than engage in conversation either pointless or destructive. The Archduchess stared out the window, her profile elegant and unreadable. Even under better circumstances, Ivy knew that they would never have been friends.

  Christien stared out the opposite window, a colonial cigarette in his clockwork grip but she hadn’t seen him smoke. He was trying to make sense out of what he had witnessed but the perfect porcelain mask was tight. She wondered who he would be if and when he ever let it slip.

  For his part, Sebastien merely sat with the blanket over his head. The last she’d seen of him, one eye had still been white and she wondered if it had gone back to brown in the last few hours. Nothing was guaranteed unless that happened.

  And not even then. Not anymore.

  She sighed and sank back, her mind rolling back to his behavior after the abbot had chased them from the sanctuary. They had been forced to wait for the carriage in the Prelate’s Courtyard and when it rolled under the great stone gate, she was surprised to see it pulled by horses.

  “Look,” she had said to the Mad Lord. “Horses.”

  He had done a very strange thing, then – he rose to his feet and walked away to hide behind the cloisters.

  She sighed and followed, finding him behind an arch, wringing his hands.

  “Are you alright?” she asked.

  “Yes, yes,” he said. “Fine.”

  “The horses are here. Did you want to see them? You said you did.”

  “No. No I’m fine.”

  “They look quite nice. Are they Lipizzaners too?”

  “Friesians. Lipizzans are grey, although you do find the occasional bay. You need a bay. They bring good luck.”

  She really had no idea what he was talking about. All the horses in her world were black, brown or white, Thoroughbreds, Clydesdales or now, French Warmbloods.

  “Don’t you want to see them?”

  He shook his head.

  “Why not?”

  “They’re black.”

  She had looked back then. Both horses were indeed black, with long manes, tails that dragged on the ground and feet with plumes like feather dusters.

  “I don’t want them to see me,” he had continued
. “Just in case, you know. I’ve already had white and red. The black will come for me next and everything will change.”

  “What is it, Laury?” she sighed, took his hand. It was shaking and she gave it a squeeze. “Do you not want to go?”

  “No, no. That’s fine. Good, in fact. I don’t like it here, Miss Savage. Far too many dead for a church. But I don’t want to go to Vienna. I want to go somewhere else.”

  “We need to go back. We have a two days to figure things out before the funeral—”

  And quite suddenly, he caught both of her hands, pulled her behind another arch.

  “We can leave,” he’d said. “Right now and they’ll never find us. There are places we could go where there are no empires, no airships, no soldiers or guards or Hussars or policemen, only green grass and fields and water and horses and dogs and tea. I’m certain we could find books. Or if there aren’t, you could write them. Naturally we’d need fountain pens and ink and paper, so we’d need a place that had a few shops –”

  She’d placed a finger on his lips then. His eyes were wide but at least one was brown.

  “You know we can’t do that, Sebastien.”

  “We can. We could go to India or Corfu or Morocco or Istanbul. They won’t find us there. They’re coming, Miss Savage. They’re all coming and I can’t escape. Not here. Not when there are black horses in the courtyard.”

  “Ivy? Bastien?”

  It was Christien, leaning around the arch. The wind was lifting his dark hair, making his cheeks red in contrast to his pale skin.

  “Sorry. The coach is read – Oh god.”

  She glanced back at the Mad Lord. He’d slipped the blanket back over his head.

  “So the horses don’t see me,” he said.

  And her heart broke all over again.

  He had allowed her to lead him to the carriage and it reminded her of the night in the flat of Easterton Frederick Crumb, when he’d avenged three murdered women and shot a man in the head. She would never forget that night. It was seared into her bones like a brand.

  The coach bumped now as it skidded through wet snow, rousing her from her thoughts. Valerie too breathed deeply as if awakened.

  “We will be in Vienna soon,” she said quietly.

  “Bully,” said Christien.

  “We will go to the Hofburg. I can’t wait to tell my mother.”

  “Your mother?”

  “She will be overjoyed at this turn of events.”

  Christien blew out a thin stream of smoke. He blinked slowly and Ivy thought at this moment, he’d never looked more like Rupert.

  “What are you talking about?” he said flatly.

  “What happened this afternoon,” she said. “With the relics. My mother will be very pleased.”

  “Valerie, you don’t think—”

  “How could I not?” she snapped, eyes glittering. “I saw, Remy. I saw a miracle!”

  “That miracle will get us all killed.”

  “If we don’t go to the Hofburg,” she growled. “I will have you all killed.”

  “Not the most persuasive argument, darling,” said Christien.

  “My mother will understand. She knows the spirit world. We will explain everything and then we will take your brother to Rudolf.”

  “What’s that?” Ivy sat up. “What did you say?”

  “Him.” Valerie pointed at the blanket. “He can speak the words and bring back my brother from the dead.”

  There was only the sound of wheels digging through the snow. Christien dropped the cigarette to crush it under his shoe.

  “That,” he said. “Is impossible.”

  “For you, yes. For me, yes. But for him?”

  “Valerie—”

  She swung toward the Mad Lord.

  “You can do this, yes?”

  “He can’t,” said Ivy. “No one can.”

  “Those relics were hundreds of years old, perhaps a thousand! He made them live!”

  “He can’t do it.”

  “Ask him!”

  Ivy bit her lip. It was a fantastical question.

  “Sebastien?” she asked. “Sebastien, what do you think?”

  “Is there tea?”

  “Can you, Laury? Can you bring someone back from the dead?”

  He sighed, breaking her heart with that one small thing.

  She reached up to slide the blanket from his head, surprised that he didn’t resist. Ran a hand through his hair, took a moment to examine the wound that only yesterday had been oozing with blood. It was almost healed over, but she could see the aluminium sheen beneath the skin. One eye was still white, both bloodshot, and she thought his cheeks had sunken, just a little.

  “Can you see Rudolf, Sebastien?” she asked quietly.

  He shook his head.

  “Why not?”

  “I don’t know. The world is upside down, Miss Savage.”

  “Ivy.”

  “Yes, that too.”

  “Can you bring Rudolf back from the dead?”

  “Maybe.” He blinked slowly, as if trying to focus. “I’ve never done anything like that before.”

  “You moved those skeletons,” said Christien.

  “I didn’t. They moved themselves.”

  “How?”

  “I don’t know. You’d best ask them.”

  She resisted the impulse to kiss him. Odd, that.

  “Right,” she sighed and sat back. “We’ve been rather preoccupied with running these last days. Now that we’re closing in on Vienna, I think we need to talk this through.”

  Christien grunted and snapped open the stolen case, began to light another cigarette. “You did say you had a plan.”

  “Well, it may have to change some, given the current circumstances but we can do quite a lot of sleuthing from this very cab.”

  “From here?” asked the Archduchess.

  “We have all the tools we need.” And she tapped her head. “We just need to clarify the chain of events. Valerie—”

  “Marie Valerie Mathilde Amalie, Archduchess von Habsburg,” said Valerie.

  Ivy blinked slowly.

  “And I may call you…?”

  “Your Most Royal Highness.”

  Ivy tried a smile. It was thin, but still.

  “I shall do that very thing,” she said. “So we don’t know much, only that Rudolf—”

  “Rudolf Franz Karl Joseph—”

  “Valerie,” growled Christien.

  The Archduchess smiled wickedly. How like the wind she changed.

  Ivy went on.

  “The Crown Prince was shot the night of the party, yes?”

  “Sometime during the night, yes.”

  “And where? He wasn’t at the Hofburg, was he? Tell me, where did he die?”

  “Mayerling,” she said. “His private hunting lodge in the Vienna Woods.”

  “Are there stairs in Mayerling?”

  “Of course. Why?”

  Ivy thought for a moment, remembering the conversation in the Kolmar barn. If Sebastien was right about Arclight, things could get sticky very quickly. She would have to be careful.

  “Who was the girl he brought to the party, the one with the locket?”

  “That was Baroness Marie von Vetsera,” Valerie said. “But she preferred to be called Mary. I don’t know if she had other, more appropriate names. I never cared to ask.”

  “Was she his mistress?”

  “His ‘special’ friend.”

  “Special friend?” Christien arched his brow. “I had thought the Viennese more creative than that.”

  Valerie growled but Ivy ignored him.

  “Is it customary to bring your ‘special friend’ to a court function like that?”

  “No. It was a breech of etiquette.”

  “That’s why your father was angry then.”

  “My father does not approve of Mary,” said Valerie. “No one does.”

  “Hmm.” Ivy chewed her bottom lip. “She was with Rudolf the night h
e died, yes?”

  “It was first thought she poisoned him.”

  “But she didn’t, did she?”

  “Someone murdered him. It is the only explanation.”

  “Not the only explanation,” muttered Ivy. “Not by half.”

  “With someone of his status, a political motive is the most obvious,” said Christien. “Rudolf was a liberal prince in a conservative country.”

  The Archduchess nodded swiftly.

  “Liberal, yes.”

  “Surely that would bring him into conflict with the government.”

  “Taaffe hated him,” she said quietly. “Our prime minister. He felt Rudolf was courting anarchy with his socialist views.”

  “And was he?”

  “Rudolf loved Austria. He would never do anything to bring it shame.”

  “He was tipping the velvet with a seventeen year old girl, love.”

  She struck him on the cheek and he held his breath before slowly exhaling a thin line of smoke. Slowly he smiled, but naturally, without his eyes.

  “So this Taaffe,” said Ivy. “Would he have anything to gain from Rudolf’s death?”

  “Nothing. He would have nothing. Rudolf may have been Liberal, but he was the heir to the Empire. Even a liberal heir is better than none.”

  “Is Taaffe like Bismark? Controlling the government with a puppet king?”

  “Taaffe would love to be von Bismark,” Valerie grunted. “But my father is no puppet.”

  “Other factions in the government?”

  “There are no other factions in the government.”

  “A different government, then?”

  “A different government?” Valerie narrowed her eyes. “What do you mean?”

  “The Gilded Empire must have enemies.”

  “Or allies,” suggested Christien. “Sometimes allies are worse.”

  “Our allies are loyal.”

  “Are they?” he said, took a long drag from the cigarette. “Is the Three Emperors League allied with the Triple Alliance or the Triple Entente or both?”

  “Or neither?” added Ivy.

  “And how would a very conservative Wilhelm react to a very liberal Rudolf on the Gilded throne? Easier to remove him, put someone less threatening in his place. Someone like, oh say, Gisela? Now that would be an alliance.”