by David Bishop
"Most have already returned home early for the Easter holidays, as have many of our regular tutors," Wartski replied. "But the elite class is here for another week. We have a dozen students from around the Empire, most aged between eighteen and twenty-one." The shuttle finished landing procedures and Wartski pulled open the passenger door.
"And what's the split between male and female?"
Wartski stopped and looked at him. "Didn't Captain Arbatov tell you? The Fabergè Institute is a finishing school for young ladies from the richest and most important families in the Empire."
"Really?"
"Yes." Wartski started climbing down the shuttle steps. "I hope that isn't going to be a problem for you."
Dante shook his head slowly. "A finishing school for young ladies aged eighteen to twenty-one? No, I don't think that should present any difficulties..."
Except keeping your pants on long enough to take lessons, the Crest said. This situation will only lead to one thing...
"No difficulties at all," Dante concluded.
Trouble, trouble and more trouble!
SIX
"Deceit and cunning go together"
- Russian proverb
Wartski marched towards the castle entrance, her chunky legs stomping along the pathway. Dante followed close behind, his eyes roving across the exterior of the stonework. Flintlock and Spatchcock brought up the rear, struggling to carry the entire luggage between them. "Be careful not to venture off the path," Wartski warned them sternly. "The island may look benign but its external surface is embedded with pressure mines. Your first step off the correct path would also be your last."
"An impressive security system," Dante said. "But is it strictly necessary for a girls' finishing school?"
Wartski stopped outside the entrance and folded her arms. "Firstly, this is an educational institute for young ladies, not girls. Give our students the respect they deserve, Mr Durward. Secondly, there have been instances where predatory males thought they might be able to satisfy their carnal lusts with our pupils. The few who made it to the island alive did not leave it in the same condition. Thirdly, our director believes such security measures are necessary to protect his personal research. You would do well not to question the judgement of Doctor Fabergè."
"Of course. Your comments are noted and will be respected," Dante said.
Chance would be a fine thing.
Wartski pressed her palm against a block of frosted glass in the wall beside the entrance. A beam of light scanned the contours of her hand before the glass turned green. Double doors sighed open, revealing a vast reception chamber inside. "Once your bona fides have been confirmed, your palm print will be recorded and logged into our security system," she explained. "That will enable you to access all areas of the castle necessary to perform your duties. Your servants will also have to undergo such screening."
"Of course," Dante said, nodding vigorously. "We must be on our guard at all times. Heaven forbid anything that might impugn the name of Fabergè!"
Wartski raised an eyebrow at this outburst before gesturing for him to enter. "After you, Mr Durward."
Dante bowed deeply, then strolled into the reception chamber, followed by Flintlock and Spatchcock. Wartski was last inside, waving her hand across another palm reader within. The doors slammed shut with a boom of finality. Dante looked around the room, marvelling at its high ceiling and oak-panelled walls. A banner with the Fabergè family crest hung on one wall, close to an honours board marking the achievements of past pupils. The institute had only been open nine years but could already claim several prominent alumni. Top of the list were two names - Strangelove S, and Strangelove T.
Any relation to the Strangelove Gambit?
Wartski noted Dante's interest in the honours board. "Storm and Tempest were our first pupils, the stars of their year. You may remember their success at the Imperial Games?"
"Of course," Dante replied with a smile, the Crest filling his thoughts with facts and statistics from its files. "A remarkable pair!"
"I thought they both had a remarkable pair," Spatchcock muttered, jabbing an elbow into Flintlock's ribs and leering crudely. He wiped the smirk off his face before Wartski could see it.
She opened a side door with a gesture across another palm reader. "If you'll excuse me, I need to report your arrival to Doctor Fabergè and check the identification papers you supplied. Please wait here."
Dante nodded and smiled, watching her depart before turning to his companions. "Now, I want both of you to be on your best behaviour. Do nothing to embarrass the good name of Quentin Durward, is that clear?"
Spatchcock rolled his eyes and grinned. Flintlock began to speak, then stopped, clamping his mouth shut in frustration.
"Very good," Dante continued, his eyes searching the reception area for surveillance devices. "We must be on our guard at all times, to ensure we meet the high standards set by the Fabergè Institute."
Madame Wartski has begun searching the records for your fake identity, the Crest warned. The false history I created should sustain itself through a routine scrutiny, but if she digs any deeper...
Dante folded his arms and waited. "I wonder where the pupils are?"
"At mass," Wartski replied, emerging from the side door with his papers clutched in a chubby, wart-ridden hand. "Our director insists all the students observe the main feast days of the church calendar. Why feed the mind if the soul goes unnourished?"
"An admirable sentiment," Dante agreed, reaching for the documents. "I trust everything was in order?"
Wartski smiled broadly, an expression that ill suited her fearsome face. "We are honoured to have such a distinguished instructor join our faculty. Hopefully we will be able to make your time here a stay of some duration. Perhaps you would like a tour of our facilities?"
"That would be most kind. But I hardly think it appropriate for my servants to join us. If I might be so bold, may I suggest their fate be determined first?"
Wartski acknowledged the wisdom of this. "Very well. You two, take the first door on the right after you leave here. There is a staircase leading down to the kitchen where our resident chef and housekeeper Scullion will find a use for both of you. Once you've been assigned suitable tasks return here and carry your master's luggage to his quarters. I will leave directions. Do you understand?" Spatchcock and Flintlock nodded quickly. "Very good. Off you go and try not to antagonise Scullion. Her temper is short and her tentacles long."
The two men hurried to escape the matron's fearsome gaze. Dante could hear Spatchcock muttering to Flintlock as the pair left the reception chamber. "Her tentacles are long? Who is this Scullion, an octopus?"
Once they were gone Wartski began leading Dante around the castle, explaining the use of each room on their tour. The east tower and nearby rooms were devoted to dormitories and other student facilities, while the south tower and its environs were classrooms and training areas. "We teach all the key subjects our pupils might require for their lives as the leading ladies of the Empire," Wartski explained. "History, business communication, literature, philosophy, organisations behaviour, psychology, ecology, a dozen different languages, economics, etiquette, domestic science, music, ballroom dancing and flower arranging."
"A broad curriculum," Dante replied. "You offer an admirable range of knowledge to the young ladies."
Wartski threw open a door to reveal the top level of the south tower. The entire space was given over to a well-equipped gymnasium, the floor and walls heavily padded to prevent injury. "We expect you to give each of our pupils a strenuous workout, discover their strengths and weaknesses."
"It will be my pleasure," he replied. "Hopefully they will respond well to the personal touch and breadth of experience I can offer."
Take a care, the Crest warned. The matron may have a face to curdle milk, but the woman is no fool.
"I've been taking the classes myself since your predecessor left," Wartski continued. "Alas, I am not as nimble as I on
ce was. The students are looking forward to having you really stretch them."
Dante merely nodded, not trusting himself to say anything out loud. His tour guide gestured at the west tower, the gymnasium's window. "That area of the castle is given over to the faculty: private quarters, ablution blocks, a study and library area, along with meetings rooms. The junior tutors have left for the term but our senior staff remain on site all year round. You'll meet them at dinner tonight, beginning promptly at seven."
A heavy chiming filled the air, closely followed by the sound of feminine giggling outside. "Ah, mass is over for today, the students are returning to their dormitory. Would you like to see them?" Wartski asked.
Dante looked down at a square courtyard in the centre of the castle. A dozen beautiful young women were hurrying across the cobbles, laughing and teasing each other. All were clad in demure gowns of blue and white, but even the severe cut of the cloth could not disguise their firm buttocks and jutting breasts. The women disappeared into a doorway at the foot of the east tower, the sound of their laughter like music in the air. "They look very fit," Dante said, trying to keep his voice neutral. "You've obviously done a good job of keeping them active."
"I wish I could claim the credit. Your predecessor, Mr Russell, drove the students hard. Sometimes I think he would have been happier teaching a class of young men, such was his passion for the more masculine athletic pursuits - wrestling, boxing and the like."
"I'm all for treating women like women," Dante avowed.
"Good, then you won't mind picking up some of the classes Mr Russell neglected, such as philosophy and literature studies."
Something tells me I'm going to be rather busy, the Crest commented.
"Two of my favourites!" Dante lied. "When do I start?"
"Classes resume tomorrow," Wartski replied. "I'll escort you to your quarters. No doubt you'll wish to freshen up before joining the other staff in the library for a pre-dinner drink?" She began striding from the gymnasium, not noticing Dante lingering at the window. He was studying the north tower opposite, its windows shrouded with black-tinted glass. "Mr Durward?" Wartski called, but got no response.
Dante! She's calling you!
"What? Oh, sorry!" Dante shouted, hurrying after his host. "Just planning my first class for tomorrow. It's always been an ambition of mine to work at a prestigious facility, especially one with such an admirable student body. I do believe I'll fit right in here."
In the kitchen Spatchcock and Flintlock were standing to attention as a green-skinned creature with at least a dozen tentacles studied them with disgust. An entire wall of the kitchen was given over to a pantry, while foul-smelling liquids bubbled away in cast iron vats. A sturdy wooden table filled the centre of the cooking room, lined with chairs on either side. Three doorways led away from the kitchen. One was the staircase down which Spatchcock and Flintlock had descended into Scullion's domain. The other two led to a drainage room and another, as yet unseen destination.
"My name is Scullion," the creature announced, "and no matter what Madame Wartski might think, I am responsible for keeping this institute running. I do this by taking responsibility for all its needs below stairs: the cooking, the cleaning, the laundry and any other ablutions required. Any questions?" Scullion jabbed Flintlock in the stomach with a tentacle, making him wince in pain.
"He's a mute," Spatchcock offered helpfully. "Can't speak a word."
"Thank you, I am aware of what the word mute means."
"Sorry. I just thought, what with you being an offworlder-" Spatchcock was abruptly silenced as his head was clamped inside another of Scullion's tentacles, moist pink suckers adhering to his face. The squat, emerald-hued alien leaned closer to Spatchcock, its one red eye peering at him intently.
"I've had enough anti-alien abuse to last me a lifetime. On my home planet of Arcneva I was Gourmet Chef of the Cycle twice in a row. I do not need some snivelling weasel of a servant to tell me-" Scullion paused in mid-rant, sniffing the air with disdain. "What is that stench?"
Spatchcock peeled away the tentacle from his face to reply. "Sorry, that's probably me. Most people complain that I smell worse than an alien's arsehole." The words were out of his mouth before he realised what was being said. "I-"
Scullion slapped the tentacle back into place. "Silence! I wasn't talking to you. I was talking to this loathsome creature!" The alien jabbed Flintlock once more. He opened his mouth to protest, remembered his status as a mute and closed his mouth again with a snap. Scullion sniffed at Flintlock's armpits before reeling away, squealing in horror and quickly retracting its tentacles. "Most humans smell like wet pork to me, but you - you carry the foulest of stenches with you! What is your name?"
"He's called Flintlock," Spatchcock chipped in.
"From now on he shall be called Faeces," Scullion decided. "He shall be addressed only by that name in my presence. Do you understand?"
"Yes, er..."
"You can call me Scullion, or ma'am."
Spatchcock smiled. "Yes, ma'am."
The alien studied him carefully. "Can you cook?"
"I can always rustle something up," he admitted.
"Good. I will tutor you in the ways of Arcnevan cuisine, Spatchcock." Scullion slipped a tentacle round his shoulders and gave them a playful squeeze. "As for your friend Faeces..."
"He could clean out the drains," Spatchcock suggested with a smile.
"A task to match his title and his aroma! Excellent. I couldn't have thought of anything more appropriate myself." The alien pointed at a circular sewer covering in the adjoining drainage room. "You can start over there."
Flintlock hurried to the grille and lifted it up, his head snapping away from the odour of raw sewage wafting upwards. The former aristocrat gave Spatchcock a murderous glare, his fists clenching and unclenching. "I said get started, Faeces!" Scullion snapped. "You brought this on yourself, so don't blame you sweeter-smelling colleague. Try following his example in future and I might forgive you. Now get on with your allotted task!"
Dante was less than impressed with his private quarters. The spartan stone chamber contained a wardrobe, stiff-backed chair and single bed as furnishings. Wartski explained that Doctor Fabergè preferred his staff to spend as much time as possible among the other faculty members and students. "Bedrooms are for sleeping in, nothing more," she added with a growl of warning. "Your servants will be permitted to wait upon you here once a day, if their duties are completed, but no other visitors are allowed."
"Perfectly fair and reasonable," Dante replied out loud. How I am supposed to know my students better with this behemoth breathing down my neck, he thought to himself.
You would do better to concentrate on your mission, the Crest suggested. The Strangelove Gambit, remember?
"Captain Arbatov told me the institute was soon to be honoured with a visit by the Tsar," Dante said. "Is that true?"
Wartski frowned. "Yes, although I don't know how he can have told you that. It hasn't been announced in the court circular."
"Really? Well, when I see Arbatov next I will remonstrate with him for such a lapse. It does not do to gossip about such matters."
"No, it doesn't," Wartski agreed. "Why do you ask about the Tsar? Have you met him before?"
"Once or twice. We've crossed swords, you might say."
"He is due to visit us a week today. It should be a glorious occasion for the institute, helping promote our efforts to all the Empire. Doctor Fabergè cannot wait to show the Tsar what he has achieved here. Now, if you'll excuse me, I must attend to matters elsewhere in the castle."
Dante listened at his door to ensure Wartski was gone before sitting on the single bed. He bounced up and down on the thin straw mattress, wincing at the lack of give. "Not exactly the lap of luxury."
You can stop talking to yourself, I've finished scanning the room, the Crest interjected. No obvious listening devices or surveillance cameras. If you are being watched, it's technology beyond my ability to de
tect. To be safe I've established a low level-jamming signal.
"What about the palm readers?"
More problematic, the Crest admitted. I should be able to override the scanning systems but no doubt Fabergè has other methods of securing other parts of his castle.
"Like the north tower?"
Precisely. His private research is almost certainly the source of this new weapon. The institute's pupils are just a front to distract attention.
Dante smirked. "They're doing a pretty good job so far." He spread himself out on the mattress and closed his eyes. "Keep scanning Crest. The more we know about the castle and its contents, the easier it will be discovering what the Strangelove Gambit is all about."
And what will you be doing?
"Getting some rest. A night under canvas with Spatchcock and Flintlock is no way to get any beauty sleep."
True, but some of us need more than others.
"Call me when it's time for dinner."
I'm not an alarm clock, you know! the Crest protested. Dante? Dante! But the only response was the unpleasant grating sound of Dante's snoring.
It was the smell that roused Dante from his slumber. "Diavolo, who killed the cat?" he muttered, sitting up on the thin mattress. "Flintlock? Is that you?"
"Yes, it's bloody me!" A tall figure was standing beside Dante's bed, smeared from head to toe with viscous slime. Whatever colour of clothing he had been wearing was now impossible to tell, replaced by shades of black and brown. The face and hair were just as bad, only the pale blue eyes and white teeth providing any break in the sewage-stained visage. Worst of all was the smell, a rank odour worse than any back street pissotière. Dante waved Flintlock back before standing, eager to keep some distance between them.
