by Andre Norton
On the hearth the fire flickered and the shadows grew very long indeed. Michael Karl's eyes closed. For some reason he felt very happy, maybe it was because he was free at last.
There was a sharp click, and Michael Karl rolled over lazily to have the morning sun beat straight into his unguarded eyes. The American was standing at the open casement staring out.
“Really, must you be so energetic so early in the morning?” inquired Michael Karl somewhat peevishly. His shoulder was thumping, and his feet were hurrying to inform him that they were still there.
“Hullo! You've come to at last? It's past ten,” Frank Ericson informed his guest with a smile.
Michael Karl sat up guiltily. “I say, it isn't!”
“But it is. And I'm afraid, if you are able, we must be on our way. I've been hearing things about our friend up yonder,” he nodded curtly towards the window.
“I knew,” Michael Karl said with some satisfaction, “that he wouldn't let me get away as easy as that. Well, I've got to be going then. If you can lend me a pair of shoes—”
“We're leaving in an hour,” Ericson informed him. “And I've got your livery here. Remember, you're my chauffeur, lent me by the editor of Rein's leading newspaper.”
“But,” protested Michael Karl firmly, “I got myself into this mess, and I'm not going to drag you in after me. I'm leaving alone.”
He scrambled stiffly out of bed and essayed to stand. A little white, he sank back on the bed. Unable to stand, much less walk a step, he was de- pendent upon the American whether or no.
“Now that you've got over that foolishness, suppose you eat your breakfast while I have a look at those feet of yours.”
The American produced a loaded tray and his first-aid kit almost by magic.
“There,” he said when the last bandage was wrapped, “that will do, I think. Heinrich's boots will be about two sizes too large, so they won't cause you any trouble as long as you obey orders and keep off your feet.”
“But what will people think of a chauffeur who can't even stand, much less drive a car. You'll give the game away right there,” Michael Karl was triumphant.
Ericson smiled down at him. “I'll do the driving, and we'll have a convincing story for the public, never fear. You are to do as you are told!”
Michael Karl digested that and then said:
“Well, what do you want me to do?”
The American was striding up and down the room tugging perplexedly at his black hair. Suddenly he stopped and came to perch on the foot of the wide bed.
“We've been mountain climbing,” he began.
“You're not so far wrong there,” broke in Michael Karl.
Ericson silenced him with a look and continued: “I slipped and you were pulled down for a nasty fall. It was my fault, and that's why I'm so anxious about you and must hurry you back to Rein. The landlord will give out that you're my guide, I've fixed that, and in Rein they'll think that you're some boy I've picked up in the mountains. Can you speak Morvanian?”
“A very little. Only what I've picked up these last two months. The Court speaks English, you know.”
Ericson frowned. “Well, that will have to do. Remember, you're my guide and have had a fall on the rocks. Now let's get you into this.”
He pulled out a pair of dark green breeches with a high-collared, side-buttoned tunic to match and pushed and pulled Michael Karl into them by main force. They fitted tolerably well except for the black boots, which as Ericson had said were too large, but they just went over the rolls of bandages.
“Not so bad,” commented the American when he had finished and Michael Karl was established in a chair before the mirror. “You'd better put a strip of adhesive tape on that scratch of yours, it will add a little color to our story.”
Michael Karl obeyed and then surveyed his reflection. The face in the mirror was a little pale perhaps and the splash of white plaster across one cheek gave him a slightly damaged appearance, but he sadly feared that any one who had seen the late Crown Prince would be very apt to recognize him. He'd have to lie close once he got to Rein. Do his errand with the Cross and then stick indoors until Ericson talked the American Minister into giving him a passport.
Ericson packed by the simple method of tossing all his clothes into two grips and pressing them down until the lids snapped together. An untidy but very swift method it proved. He pulled on a faded trench coat and a weather-beaten hat. Grab- bing up both bags he started out the door.
“I'm going to bring the car around,” he told Michael Karl, “and then Hans and I will be up to get you.”
Michael Karl heard the exhaust of a car below and then some one clumped up the stairs. He hadn't had long to wait. Hans proved to be the stable boy, a bashfully grinning, tow-head youngster of about Michael Karl's age. He ducked his head in Michael Karl's general direction and stood waiting for orders.
The American came in like a whirlwind, and Michael Karl had the breathless feeling of one caught in such a storm. Hans under a volley of orders succeeded in aiding Michael Karl to his feet and partly leading, partly carrying him out of the door, across the landing and down the stairs.
The landlord, the “jelly” of the wolfman's disrespectful comment, stood smiling to bow them out, his pudgy hands playing with his none too clean apron. His smile was a little strained, and Michael Karl knew that for all the American's fine story, the landlord suspected who his sudden guest was and just who wanted him very badly.
They were out of the door into the Inn courtyard, and Michael Karl was carefully placed on the seat of a light gray roadster. Hans went away grinning bashfully still and fingering the first piece of silver he had seen in a long day. Wealthy travelers like this American were very few and far between at the Inn of the Crown.
The Inn sign, a warped and badly painted crown, creaked farewell and they were off with the American at the wheel. Michael Karl glanced back over his shoulder. He never expected to see the Inn of the Crown again.
“These roads,” said his companion suddenly, “are preposterous. Near Rein there are none better even in America, but once you get ten miles beyond a city they're simply horrible.”
He skillfully swerved to avoid a couple of large stones lying carelessly in the middle of the right of way.
“It wouldn't take one man ten minutes to cart those away, but no one has, and I'll bet they've been there more than a year. You'd think that the government would do something about it. They do have some sort of a road inspector but the job has a fat salary attached so it goes to some fool at court who's a friend of the higher ups. It's the same way with everything; that Werewolf for instance, if they really wanted to get rid of him they could, but there's too much graft.”
The American's words set Michael Karl thinking. If he had ruled, how much could he have done towards straightening out the muddled affairs of the kingdom hampered by such aides as the Count and the General?
“Tell me about Rein,” he commanded suddenly.
Chpater V
Michael Karl Enters His Capital
The American was only too eager to describe Michael Karl's capital.
“It's a wonderful place. The upper town hasn't been touched since the middle of the eighteenth century. Historians and such go quite wild about it. You know its history of course—”
“No,” said Michael Karl, “I don't know any more about it than it's called Rein and is on the Laub river.”
The American glanced at him sharply.
“Well, it was the ducal city when Morvania was a duchy instead of a kingdom. The Castle Fortress was built before and during the Crusades and the Cathedral in 1234. Morvania was a duchy until 1810 when the reining duke got the favor of Napoleon and had two large slices from neighboring stales added to his duchy and the whole made a kingdom.
“It caused a lot of trouble because Innesberg was one of the small towns the Duke seized, and Innesberg is now almost as large as Rein and the leading commercial and manufacturing city in th
e kingdom. The place is a hotbed of Communism and the Council is going to have a lot of trouble with it before long. The last king was assassinated while visiting there. Innesberg has none of Rein's beauty or age and is shunned by the nobility. It is very modern and ugly.
“Rein on the other hand is like one of those improbably beautiful tower cities which appear now and then stamped on the covers of fairy tale books. The streets in the Upper Town are paved with cobblestones and most of them too narrow to get a car through. On the crown of the hill is the fortress and the Upper Town winds up to meet it.
“The New or Lower Town, where the foreign colony, Ministers, commercial representatives and so forth live, is across the Laub at the foot of the hill.”
“Where do you live?” interrupted Michael Karl.
“A friend of mine lent me his house on the Pala Horn. It's a curving street leading out of the Cathedral Square. Only the more conservative of the older nobility live there now when even outsiders like myself creep in, but once only the bluest of the blue bloods dared to think of living there. My house is directly below the Fortress and there is a legend that a secret passage connects the two, a bolthole used by the duke in the old days.
“From the Cathedral Square there's a maze of little streets full of queer little shops and inns. And if you follow down far enough you come to the Bargo, the criminal section of town. The place is a horror and should be cleaned up.
“If instead of going straight down you follow the wide avenue which they call ‘The Avenue of the Duke’ around the curve of the hill you come to the bridge which leads across the Laub to New Rein. New Rein and the Upper Town have little in common nowadays.
“But Rein is a stronghold in more ways than one. The saying goes, ‘Who Holds Rein Holds Morvania,’ and that is more than true. You see it's built at the apex of the triangle which is the fertile plain of Morvania. Innesberg is well out in the middle of the plain.
“Should Innesberg revolt, Rein can bring her to terms in no time at all. All Innesberg's water supply is pumped from the mountains behind Rein. A couple of bombs well placed would send the pipes miles high, and Innesberg would be very meek.”
“What sort of an air force is there?”
The American frowned and then his face cleared. “Oh, bombing planes for the pipe job? Well, there's a wreck of a thing that the thrifty king bought after the last mixup. A wild countryman of ours risks his neck in it once a week or whenever the Council want to impress visiting dignitaries with the ‘Air Force.’ No, any bombing to be done would have to be done on the earth.”
They rumbled over a wooden bridge. Mountains and their rolling foothills had given way to the pleasant level country where, here and there, a bright-coated peasant was urging a clumsy ox or heavy-footed horse on to plow his field. The moist furrows were very brown against the spring green of the grass, and the gayest of breezes was tugging at Michael Karl's leather peaked cap. It might be snowing in the mountains, but spring had come to stay in the farmlands.
He breathed deeply and wished somewhat wistfully that he could wander at will along the road. Ericson smiled sympathetically.
“It does get one, doesn't it? But wait until you see Rein for the first time. We come down the Hartiz Mountain, and the Laub looks like a silver chain holding the whole city in enchantment. There's nothing like it anywhere else on earth.”
A shepherd, whose round cloth cap boasted the jauntiest of cock's feathers, whistled to his dog, and the gray roadster drew to one side to let the worried little collie snap and bark his stupid charges across the road. With a lazy smile the shepherd touched his cap and wished them a pleasant day and a fine ending to their journey.
“Half of Morvania's charm,” Frank Ericson seemed to speak more to himself than to Michael Karl, “is her people. If they were only let alone they would be the happiest and most contented people in the world. But they aren't, they're too loyal. Morvania hasn't changed since the Middle Ages. They're loyal to death and beyond for some worthless cub—”
“Like the Crown Prince,” murmured Michael Karl.
“Just so. He probably doesn't care a thing about them. All he wants is the throne and what he can get out of it. The Karloffs are noted for looking out for themselves first. What does he care about Morvania?”
“Maybe,” began Michael Karl hesitatingly, “maybe he never wanted to rule, maybe he wants to be free to live his own life.”
Ericson looked at Michael Karl somewhat sternly. “No one of Royal blood,” he answered slowly, “is ever free. He has a certain duty, he is a soldier always on active service. If this Crown Prince was true to the service he would come here and clean out the whole mess of idlers and worse who have been living off the people and ruining the country. He would be king in fact as well as in name. There is a big job before him, but it is more than certain that he will shirk it.”
“But,” Michael Karl almost wailed, “he doesn't want to rule. He never wanted to come to Morvania; they practically dragged him here.”
“I said,” repeated the American, “that he wasn't big enough for the job. He's selfish like all of his line.”
Michael Karl thought furiously. Was he selfish? Was it his duty to rule the country? Would he be a deserter if he slipped out of Morvania on a forged passport and left the country to the General, the Count, and their following? He had never looked at that side of it before.
Ericson was talking of something else, “He has something more to do, this Crown Prince. His cousin, the rightful heir, died in the mountains—how?”
“Black Stefan,” answered Michael Karl promptly, at least he was sure of that. But the American shook his head.
“Why do you suppose I came into the mountains?” he asked and then answered his own question swiftly. “Because I heard a very queer story about Prince Urlich Karl. I don't know whether you know the laws of Morvania or not, but this is what happened. When a King dies suddenly and the heir does not claim the throne within seven days, the control of the government passes to the Council of Nobles for one year. At the end of that time the heir must claim the throne or another heir be found.”
“Why didn't Urlich Karl claim the throne?”
“He was—prevented!”
“How?”
“By certain of the Nobles. He was on an hunting trip when his grandfather, the old king, was killed. The news reached him and he started back for Rein. On the way he disappeared, and the Council of Nobles got control.”
“But what happened?” demanded Michael Karl.
The American answered him with one word, “Murder!”
“Black Stefan—” began Michael Karl; he was still bewildered.
“Black Stefan had nothing to do with it,” answered the American almost savagely, “in fact—” but he did not finish his sentence.
“The Council—” ventured Michael Karl somewhat timidly.
“The Council.” And the American's tone was grim.
“You see,” he explained after a moment, “I knew Urlich Karl.”
They drove on in silence. Michael Karl was frowning into the reflecting windshield; somehow it was no longer so easy to think of leaving the Cross and slipping away to America. Urlich Karl must have been rather the right sort, for suddenly Michael Karl knew that this new friend of his would like only the right sort. And when Frank Ericson talked of Urlich Karl, he made a person want to go out and shoot the General and the Count and the rest of the Council.
The road was climbing again, and they left the level farmlands behind them. As Ericson had said, the poor paving of the early miles had disappeared and they were making good time on smooth concrete.
“Rein is over the mountain,” remarked Ericson as the roadster started the steady pull.
“And here,” he said a moment later, “is where we stop for passport inspection. Now remember you're a dumb youngster I picked up in the mountains.”
They slowed down before a whitewashed stone hut in the curve of the road. At the sound of their engine a blac
k-uniformed soldier stepped smartly out; to his horror Michael Karl recognized the uniform as that of his own regiment. What if the fellow had seen a picture of him?
He slipped down in the seat as far as he could and was thankful that Ericson was between him and the inspector.
“Your passport, yes?” The soldier smiled pleasantly and held out his hand for the bundle of papers.
“And this is your chauffeur?” he tried to get a better look at Michael Karl, but almost by chance the American leaned forward at the same time so all he could see was one dark green coat sleeve.
He ruffled the papers together again and handed them back. “You had better keep them at hand, sir, there are patrols out between here and the city.”
“What's happened?” asked the American.
The soldier frowned. “It is not permitted to ask,” he replied shortly and waved them on.
“Then they haven't told what happened to the Crown Prince,” Michael Karl was excited.
“They don't dare. If anything happens to this candidate for the throne, the Council will be left holding the bag and the Communists will make hay. They're making a still hunt for the Prince hoping to get by without the people learning what's the matter,” explained the American.
Then he had a better chance then ever, thought Michael Karl. They didn't dare hunt for him openly. He wished though that they would catch the Werewolf. Usually he didn't wish anybody bad luck, but he had no brotherly feeling for the Werewolf after that meeting in the hall.
Ericson slowed down and finally came to a stop at a cleared place in the forest.
“Look down,” he commanded.
Far below a river twisted about the base of a tall rock-like hill and reflected a thousand times the spires and towers of a gray city built upon the rock's crown these hundreds of years. Above the city itself was the Fortress Castle of the kings, and even as they watched a colored standard was raised to crack in the high wind from the peak of a tower.
