by Andre Norton
The beam from his torch sped along the polished floor until it caught and held a scrap of green paper. Michael Karl snatched the paper up eagerly and thrust it inside his shirt. He remembered at last how he had bent down to count the pairs of boots lined against the wall—it must have been then that he lost it.
Seeing the boots again gave him an idea. Since he had left off the last of his bandages that morn- ing Heinrich's loose boots had become something of a problem. These boots had been made to his measure in preparation for his coming, why not help himself? Michael Karl selected the pair nearest to hand, a pair of tall campaign boots like those the American had cut off him, and sat down on a dressing room chair to pull them on.
They fit perfectly, but he would have to pay for them. He pulled a handful of grimy bills from his pocket. Thank goodness the American had lent him these. Ten gruden would surely be a fair price, anyway it was all he could afford. Laying the money down on the table, he picked up his torch and went out.
Michael Karl slipped through the secret door and was back in the passage, almost light-hearted again when he moved and heard the soft crackle of the paper beneath his shirt. He could face the American with a clear conscience and tell the whole story. Though, he thought with a wry face, the telling of it was going to be hard.
He had time to notice something now which had escaped his attention when he came up. There was a light in the room he had named the Council Chamber, and through the secret door he could hear the murmur of voices.
Standing on tiptoe he looked in. The seven chairs were occupied and the table was snowed under by a heap of official looking papers. Michael Karl's old friend, the Count, presided while the General puffed and blew, his red face redder than ever, at the Count's black elbow. There was a stiff, brown-faced man with the air of a soldier, whose bushy eyebrows and cold eyes reminded Michael Karl of his old terror, the Colonel, at the Count's left. Next to the soldier was an effeminate youngster in a green and gold uniform which did not become his chinless, yellow face and lizard eyes. He did not seem to be paying much attention to the rest but was polishing his too-long nails on his silk handkerchief and eyeing with marked disfavor his neighbor, a roughly dressed fellow whose ragged mustache was lifted now and then in an unpleasant sneer.
“Our friend of the mustache,” thought Michael Karl, “doesn't seem at home with the rest of the bunch. He looks as though he thought they were a bunch of weak-minded children. I bet he's for action and the rest are holding back,”
On the left of the mustached one a tiny figure, so wrapped in a crimson cloak as to be almost invisible, was huddled back in the chair, the long white fingers of one hand playing nervously with a silver chain from which dangled a cross. So the Count had one of the Church to give him council.
The Churchman's neighbor was leaning forward, paying strict attention to something the Count was saying. He had the strength of the soldier and the impatience of the mustached one, but somehow he was different. Michael Karl felt that he was out of place in that assembly. The man's black hair hung untidily over his high tanned forehead, and his mouth was eager. As he listened he agreed or disagreed with violent shakes of his head.
The man beside him was as bored as his neighbor was interested. Like the youth on the other side of the table he was in uniform although this was as drab as the boy's was bright. He was gazing over the heads of all of them humming a little tune. Like the earnest man he was out of place, his face was neither crafty, cruel nor stupid.
Michael Karl wished that he knew who they all were. He began to believe that he had stumbled upon a meeting of the Council of Nobles. Although he strained his ears he could hear only a word now and then until the Count raised his voice and their disputing voices followed.
“It is madness,” said the Count dryly. “We dare not move until we have an heir for the throne.”
The young man looked up from his brilliant nails. “Do I not stand next to the throne?” he asked coolly.
He with the mustache favored the boy with a look of great contempt. “The people can stand much, but they will refuse to stomach you, Marquisa.”
The Marquisa shot him such a glance of pure hatred that even the mustached one appeared a little uneasy.
The Count was speaking again. “Herr Kamp is right. We can not bring any other than a Karloff to the throne no matter how good his claims may be.”
“What is the latest news from the mountains?” demanded the soldier.
The Count answered wearily. “The usual thing, which is nothing. The boy was probably killed long ago. He had no chance in the Werewolf's hands.”
“Then,” said General Oberdamnn heavily, “we are finished.”
“I think,” it was the man in the dull uniform who broke the silence, “that I may now have the pleasure of saying ‘I told you so.’ You should have kept Urlich Karl.”
“Nonsense!” exploded the youth in green.
The man leaned across the table. “How much did you get out of the Laubcrantz mines, Marquisa? And why did you spend a certain weekend in the mountains?”
The Marquisa jumped to his feet. He was very pale, and Michael Karl watched his hand clench as if to strike the speaker.
“Gentlemen, gentlemen,” chided the Count.
The man paid no attention to him. “The time has come,” he spoke slowly, “for a little plain speaking, if,” he paused and looked about him, “if there can be such a thing here. You want the money the American company can pay for the concession of the sulphur mines. That was and is the whole root of this cursed business. Well, because you knew that Urlich Karl wouldn't allow the wealth of the country to become the property of foreigners, because you knew that he would never sign the concession papers, Urlich Karl disappeared, and the Council according to law was proclaimed regent. And then you discovered that only the king may sign concessions. Count Kafner produced the American Prince and lost him to the Werewolf. Now, gentlemen, we are right where we were before. Who is going to sign that concession and make it legal?
“I promised to support your pretender with the weight of my influence because there were no more Karloffs left in Morvania. And while I live,” he stared straight at the Marquisa, “there shall be none but a Karloff on the throne of Morvania. My line has certain old loyalties which can not be broken even by such as I. But lately I have heard things. Count Kafner, did you or did you not order the death of Urlich Karl?”
General Oberdamnn's face was almost purple, and the man with black hair was tearing a sheet of paper before him into bits with a rasping sound. The youth flicked his tongue in and out like a lizard he so resembled. While the sneer of the man with the mustache was more pronounced, and even the Churchman shifted in his chair.
“Did you?” asked the man again. Only the soldier remained unmoved.
The Count seemed to be making a decision. At last he spoke. “I did,” he answered frankness with frankness; “it seemed best at the time. The Prince had certain ideas which were a menace to our plans. But”—he paused—“my orders were not carried out. There was some one before us.”
“Who?”
“The Werewolf. The Prince was stopped that night before he reached my men.”
The man in the dull uniform leaned back in his chair. “At least you can tell the truth when you wish, my dear Count. So the Werewolf has deprived us of two Princes? Well, and what are you going to do about the American concession now? Again I warn you that you can't put it through without the King's signature. And I swear to you,” his voice rang very clear, “I swear to you that the Marquisa Cobentz will never mount the throne while any of my name live. You might as well turn the country over to the Communists and be done with it.”
The Marquisa was leaning over, staring straight into the man's face. “Don't swear, Duke Johann, oaths that you can not keep.”
Duke Johann smiled sweetly. “Where I go, Laub, Karnow, Kallhant, Conve and Kaptan will follow with everything they possess. The entire nobility except your bootlickers will t
ake their cue from me.”
“Not,” the Marquisa grinned like a wolf, “not if they believe you're one of the murderers of Urlich Karl.”
Duke Johann showed no surprise. “I expected that. You can not do it.”
“Rumor is an ugly thing, and if you were to vanish for a day or two, who would there be to stop men talking?”
“I!” the black-haired man almost shouted. “I want to free the people of Morvania, but I'm not going to use lies, trickery or murder. If anything happens to the Duke, the Nationalist and all the rest of my papers will print the whole story of what has gone on in this room. No matter what happens to me, that story will go to press if I don't report in person to my office every morning. And, Marquisa, the whole episode of the Laubcrantz Mines is part of that story.”
The Marquisa turned pasty white and sank into his chair. Duke Johann smiled at the man by his side. “Bravo, Lukrantz! Had we but one of the Karloffs to lead us, we could pull out of this mess after all.”
One of the Karloffs! Michael Karl straining to catch every word stared down at the Duke. One of the Karloffs. He was one, he had only to step out and the Duke would make him king. While he hesitated, playing with the thought, the Count spoke again.
“We have a month to clear and then we must go.”
Duke Johann stared at him, and when he spoke there was such contempt in his voice that the Count started as if he had been cut with a whip. “So the rats are thinking of leaving. Well, I and mine stay.”
The man with the mustache leaned forward. “You and yours, my fine duke? Well, I and mine will make an end of all of you. We've had enough of the nobles and their doings. It is about time the South had a little to say in the government. The day of the Karloff and his lily-livered flunkies is over. The people are going to rule.”
The Duke surveyed him as if he were some sort of a strange animal.
“So the people wish to rule,” he said gently. “Well, perhaps they won't make as big a mess as we have; but to reach the throne they will have to climb a wall, Friend Kamp, a wall I think they won't attempt just yet. Do you know what that wall is?”
Kamp growled some sort of an answer.
“That wall,” the Duke went on, his voice a smooth and deadly purr, “is composed of the bodies of every noble and every loyal man in the kingdom. We all remember Russia, Kamp, where I believe you did business, and forewarned is forearmed. You will find us ready.”
Kamp sneered. “That is as it is. You will see the Red Flag on the Fortress yet.”
“It grows late,” said the Count hurriedly.
Duke Johann, Lukrantz and Kamp took the hint. Kamp hurried away with the briefest of good nights while the Duke and Lukrantz followed more leisurely. The Marquisa stamped out by himself frowning horribly, and the little man in the red robe scuttled behind him still holding his silver cross.
Michael Karl was about to ease his aching feet by dropping down when he saw that the three men left were not going to leave at all. They got up from the table, to be sure, but instead of going to the door they were crossing the room to a point directly below Michael Karl. He realized that the secret door was more than a foot above the floor.
He could no longer see them through the peephole but he could still hear them. There was the sound of an opening drawer and then the soldier spoke.
“Duke Johann may control the nobility, but, what Kamp says is true, the day of the nobility is over. The Duke is getting out of hand. He should be reasoned with,” he ended with a dry unpleasant laugh.
Some one drew in his breath with a sharp whistling sound.
“Then you think that Kamp is the man to bargain with?” demanded General Oberdamnn.
“Nobody could bargain with Kamp, he actually believes the stuff he preaches. No, he wouldn't save our sinking ship if we gave him the key to the treasury.” That was the soldier again.
“Then what can we do, Laupt?” wailed the General. “We have no Prince to produce, and the Council has their accounting next—”
“If you are worrying about those military funds you, shall I say, borrowed, you needn't be afraid. Your share of the concession will pay it up.” Again the soldier laughed unpleasantly.
“But you heard what the Duke said: the concession has to be signed by the king and there is no king.”
“The Marquisa is next heir to the throne, General.”
“But, Major Laupt,” broke in the Count, “no one would support his claim.”
“No?”
“You have a plan?” asked the General eagerly.
“Perhaps. Is there any way we can trick the Duke out of Rein for the next week or so?”
“We might,” the Count said slowly, “suggest that new information has been received which leads us to believe that Urlich Karl is a prisoner and we know the place where he is imprisoned. All the information coming from a loyal spy. It is a thin story, but it may do and get the Duke and all his crew out. For if Johann believed that Urlich Karl was still alive, he would storm the gates of Hell for him and every one of the nobles would cheerfully aid him in doing it.”
“Then we must fix up our story to-night. General Oberdamnn, you are chief of the secret service. Who is on duty in the mountains now?”
“No one. Our last spy,” the General's voice shook a little, “came floating down the Laub with his throat cut.”
“Well, who might be there?”
“Dimk might. He has some reputation too.”
“Where is he now?”
“Off on one of those silent hunts of his. He works without orders but he usually brings in just what we want although sometimes he doesn't report for days at a time.”
“Would Johann believe Dimk?”
“Yes, Dimk worked under Johann once.”
“That is excellent. Then this is what we'll do.”
Michael Karl found that he could hear better by crouching down in the passage and putting his ear against the door.
“To-morrow”—began the Major.
Chapter VIII
Michael Karl Hears What Was Not Meant For His Ears
“To-morrow,” said Major Laupt, “Dimk will come to you with a story. You will of course be alone when he comes. Urlich Karl was not killed a year ago but is being held prisoner by the Werewolf in the Laub Mountains”—the Major broke off with a laugh. “It has just occurred to me that the Werewolf might finish off Johann and his men and thank us for sending him the chance if the Duke goes too deeply into the mountains. Well, Johann's Prince will be there waiting for him.”
“But we'll have to have some proof, we can't produce Dimk. Why, I don't even know where the man is,” protested the General.
“You will have proof. The estate of the late Crown Prince contains a ruined mountain castle which no one but the wolves or a forester has visited these last ten years. In fact most people have forgotten about it. What more probable than that the Werewolf has made it his headquarters— it is in the heart of his country—and is holding the Prince a captive there? I can furnish you a map of the castle and the surrounding country.”
“But,” protested the General again, “Johann will demand to see Dimk and question him himself. Johann is no fool.”
“That, of course, is the weak spot,” admitted the Major. “But we must be firm upon the point that Dimk has returned to watch the Prince and his captor.”
“Will Johann believe any story that we tell? He knows we hated Urlich Karl,” the Count was doubtful now.
“He knows that we must have a prince to save ourselves from the public accounting. Perhaps you can suggest delicately, my dear General, that the Prince has remained where he is through our efforts. Johann would be apt to believe that. That would help the Dimk part too. Or better yet, you play the craven, Oberdamnn; go to Johann secretly and reveal this plot of ours and tell him all about the Prince. Pretend that you're afraid of Kamp and his supporters.”
“I'll try,” promised the General with no great relish.
“You'll do better
than try, Oberdamnn,” snapped the Count.
“To-night, within the hour, you will pay a visit to Kamp,” continued the Major. “You will tell him that Count Kafner wishes to see him at ten tomorrow morning. From Kamp's lodgings you will go straight to the Pala Horn and demand to see the Duke. They will tell you that he isn't in, he's attending some sort of a meeting at the Journalist's Club with Lukrantz. You will seem much disturbed. Mutter a little and pace the floor, do anything to impress upon the minds of the servants that you are deeply worried about something, but be sure and come away before twelve when the Duke will arrive. Tell the butler that you will call his master in the morning as you can no longer wait. And call upon him as early as you can within reason. Remember you've got to act your part well. You must give Johann the impression that you have cold feet about this whole affair and are ready to talk. Give him something to think about.”
“With Johann out of the city”—suggested the Count.
“With Johann out of the city we begin to work. Lukrantz must be muzzled, I leave that to you. Kamp will be told that we are ready to see things his way if he will support Cobentz for king. He will agree because he will think he sees a chance of raising the people against us, Cobentz being what he is. Yes, Kamp will join us with his tongue in his cheek.”
“Next Sunday the Archbishop must preach a very moving sermon, we'll get Mantz to write it, all about the ancient Karloffs, and at the end he will pray for Michael Karl as one dead. That will set the people to thinking. Then we produce a body and hold a state funeral. Cobentz must make a parade of great sorrow as chief mourner. That will identify him with the throne in the eyes of the people.”
“But the people hate Cobentz,” protested the General.
“Just so. That's where Kamp comes in. He will try to organize a revolution, and so will we. Kamp will raise the red flag and we the silver standard”—
“For Cobentz?”
“No, you fool, Cobentz will be disposed of, only Kamp will believe that he is our man. We will raise it for the Duke; he has Karloff blood and the nobles will follow him.”
