Impossible Odds

by Dave Duncan

  “You are no trouble!” He spun around and marched to the far side of the room. “You will swear me an oath now, Johanna Schale! You will swear me the most solemn oath of your life. You shall not give in to that disgusting lecher. No matter what he offers you or what he threatens, you shall refuse and keep on refusing.” Back he came, still blazing, glaring down at her. “You will be polite and respectful at all times, but you shall refuse him.” He loomed over her. “Swear!”

  She swore as he dictated.

  He turned to fill a wineglass, leaving her still shedding ash by the fireplace. His tone became flatter, duller, more guarded. “He is not a bad ruler, Rubin. Better than his father or grandfather. But he does have a weakness for young girls. Everyone knows about it, and it probably does little harm if both the girl and her parents are agreeable. He cannot marry.” The Baron handed her the goblet without meeting her eye. This conversation must be intensely painful for him, for he would never normally criticize his liege lord or discuss carnal matters with a young woman. Johanna knew much more about those than he realized, just from listening to the palace staff.

  “Normally,” the Baron growled, “he confines his attentions to the lower classes, and he is reputedly generous. In Krupa they use girls as bribes to win contracts, promotions, preferments, or high office. But a nobleman’s ward is not for sale!”

  “Why? I mean why did you say His Highness cannot marry?” The wine trembled unheeded in the goblet she held.

  Ernst wheeled his bulk around and stomped back to the window. “Because Grand Dukes of Krupina have always married royalty—usually minor royalty, to be sure, but royalty. Rubin was married twice, when he was very young, and both wives died in curious circumstances. That is enough to shut the ruler of a wren-sized dukedom out of the market for princesses. His debauchery doesn’t help, for it is well known. He has an adequate heir in his uncle and seems content to leave matters so.” The old man turned to scowl at Johanna. “I can’t send him packing, as I would any other man who spoke to you as he did. I can’t send you off to some neighbor’s—that would be insult now he has met you. We’ll just have to put up with him until his eye lights on someone else. I’ll pass the word among the servants, and hope some lass gets ambitious. Meanwhile you will sleep in the foxhole, and by day you must never go around without companions.”

  For two weeks Johanna was never alone, except at night, when she slipped away to sleep in the foxhole.

  No one knew who had made the foxhole or when. Had it been able to speak, it would doubtless have told many hair-raising tales of fugitives, escapes, and betrayals, some of them centuries old, others not. Even searchers who had reason to believe such a place existed would need weeks to find it, for it was cunningly concealed within the thickness of the tower wall. Ernst himself had never had need to use it, but he kept it in good order—the secret door, the warning bell, the cunningly placed spyholes that let occupants keep watch on events outside. Cramped though it was, it was set high in the tower and did not trigger Johanna’s lifelong dread of being underground.

  Mealtimes were bad, when she had to sit beside the Duke and endure his wiles, but most days he went hunting. Evenings were the worst, because then she had to attend him in the solar, and his propositioning became much more blatant, provoking outraged protests from the Baron. For a notorious seducer, Rubin was curiously inept. Spotty-faced farm boys could spin a far better line than he could, as she knew from experience. He offered her wealth and jewels, dropped hints of land and a baronetcy that she could pass on to a son when she had one. She should be flattered, but she felt soiled instead. He never thought of taking her hunting, or inviting her to Court, or trying anything other than straight bribery. He ignored the pretty servant girls who flitted and flirted around him.

  He could hardly hope to bribe the Baron, who was rich and very old, but he could threaten him, and did so. Another fifty retainers swarmed in from Krupa and ate like locusts, emptying the castle larders and forcing Seneschal Priboi to buy supplies from far and wide, at great expense. Ancient land claims and lawsuits were mined from the state archives and brandished over von Fader’s wealth and even his title. These tactics terrified Johanna, so that she privately begged to be allowed to submit and get it over with, but they merely made the old man more furious, more stubborn. He swore he would never surrender.

  Then the Duke did.

  Rumor said the chase had gone badly that day, which meant he would be more persistent than ever—after a good hunt he was usually more ready to settle for a couple of bottles of wine and an early night. As soon as his train had been observed riding up the road, Johanna had headed for the safety of the kitchen, where she tried not to get in the way of the frantic dinner preparations. Soon the tattlers reported that Duke and Baron were closeted in the solar. She waited for the usual summons. And waited. The food was ready. Then the food was spoiling. Whatever was going on?

  At last a page came for her, but when she reached the solar she was surprised to find the Baron alone, staring out the window. He did not turn when she shut the door.

  “You sent for me, my lord?”

  “Yes,” he told the little diamond panes. “I did. I have news. We have lost, my dear. Or won, I do not know. Or his lust has won.” His voice was slurred and two wine bottles lay empty on the floor. “My liege lord has asked for my ward’s hand in marriage, and I can see no honorable way to refuse him.” Then he did turn, to see what she thought.

  She was so startled that the words made no sense to her. “Marriage?”

  The fat man nodded gloomily. “Full legal marriage, no morganatic nonsense. Grand Duchess Johanna. He has decided the succession matters after all. He says he wants an heir. Your son will inherit the dukedom, my dear.”

  If the sun had reversed course and come storming up over the hills again, she could not have been more surprised. “But is that not wonderful news, marvelous news, my lord?”

  He grunted. “Rubin is forty-six years old and not a very glamorous lover. I suppose women can put up with that, or there wouldn’t be so many of us around. He will not give up his philandering, I am certain. You do know what happened to his first two wives?”

  The sun quickly ducked out of sight. “Not really, my lord.” There had been hints.

  “The first died of a fever. So did many others that year, although the rich were mostly able to afford the necessary healings. Unfortunately the Grand Duchess was sensitive to spirituality and put off summoning the conjurers until too late. So it was reported. His second was even younger. A month after the wedding, she had a dizzy spell and fell out a window.”

  “Oh, no! That’s horrible!”

  “Of course it is. You can understand,” the Baron said, “that evil-minded persons said she was pushed or jumped. Even if she did kill herself, a woman may do that either because her husband abuses her or for reasons that have nothing whatever to do with him. Believe me, my dear, if I had the faintest trace of suspicion that Rubin bore any blame at all in those two tragedies, I would not entertain his suit for one instant. If you have doubts, then say so now, and I will inform His Highness that you decline his proposal.”

  Johanna knew that the Baron’s code would force him to give his sovereign the benefit of the doubt. “He was already Grand Duke when this happened?”

  “He was. If there had been any evidence of foul play, there would certainly have been talk of deposing him and putting Lord Volpe on the throne. There wasn’t. None at all.”

  Johanna tried to imagine Duke Rubin hurling a wife out the window, or deliberately keeping treatment from another when she was deathly ill. She couldn’t. He was a foolish, besotted lover, not a monster.

  “I can see why he was offered no more princesses,” she said. “But even if he did kill two wives, he won’t ever risk killing a third, would he? That would be too much for anyone to swallow!”

  “The choice is yours, my dear.”

  She laughed aloud. “But this is a fairy tale! Me—Grand Duchess?” H
er ambitions had never gone beyond some husky young farmer, perhaps a forester or a prosperous merchant. Suddenly she was being offered jewels, gorgeous gowns, people groveling to her? Crowds would cheer her as she drove by in her gilded coach! “How can I possibly refuse? Oh, thank you, thank you, my lord!” She threw herself into the old man’s arms.

  Relief like sunlight drove the last shadows of doubt from his face. “I am so happy for you, my…But you aren’t ‘my dear’ anymore, are you?” He released her so he could bow. “From now on I must address you as ‘Your Royal Highness.’”

  Johanna squealed with excitement and embraced him again.

  • 2 •

  Yet she did not really believe what was happening until a few minutes later, when her sovereign lord was kneeling at her feet and offering her a gold ring bearing a sapphire the size of an acorn.

  “I wanted it to match your eyes,” he said, “but they make it look so dull! Oh, my dearest, most wonderful Johanna, if I have frightened or offended you these last two weeks, then I am deeply sorry. My earlier experiences with marriage were so painful for me that I swore I would never remarry unless I could find a woman who was beautiful, courageous, chaste, and honorable. In more than twenty years, you are the first who has qualified. Will you grant me your forgiveness and do me the honor of becoming my wife and consort, to rule at my side?”

  She was so tongue-tied that all she could do was nod. It was enough. Rubin smiled, put the ring on her finger, and rose to kiss her. His kiss tasted of wine, but it was surprisingly gentle.

  The engagement was announced in the hall soon after, and won a tremendous ovation. The display of affection went on and on until the Grand Duchess Elect made a fool of herself by starting to weep.

  Rubin the fiancé was as charming as Rubin the suitor had been repellent. He had won the race and all that remained was to claim the prize, so there was no more urgency. Except that he did have important affairs of state to see to. Johanna was free to make any wedding arrangements she pleased, he said, regardless of cost. Brass bands, a parade of cavalry, fireworks—anything she wanted. She could invite the entire duchy if she wished. Certainly the ceremony could be held there at Fadrenschloss. His only stipulation was that it be held the day after tomorrow, heedless of the scandal and inconvenience such haste must cause.

  The Baron summoned Seneschal Priboi and told him to organize a state wedding and banquet for five hundred two days hence. The stooped old man barely flinched.

  The following morning Rubin was off early to Krupa to collect his finery and attend to the formalities of a sovereign taking a wife. He promised that seamstresses would arrive at Fadrenschloss before dark and complete Johanna’s wedding gown before dawn. He was ruler, and his wishes were not subject to argument. He kissed his bride again and promised to hasten back.

  Johanna found herself at a loss. Everyone else was in a frenzy, but she had no duties to perform.

  “This is really your last day here,” the Baron said. “How will you spend it?”

  “I’d like to go riding with you, my lord, and store up some last memories of Fadrenschloss.”

  She ran off to change. When she came down to the bailey, she found him standing with the mounts saddled and a groom in attendance, but no one else in sight. His face was grim.

  “We are about to have visitors,” he said. “Argent, a pile azure from the chief.”

  A knight’s daughter must know something of heraldry. A blue V on white was the blazon of the Vamky Brotherhood, symbolizing the Pilgrim Pass.

  No one could approach Fadrenschloss up the long roadway without the lookouts seeing. With the land at peace, to close the gates would have been grave insult, and already hooves thundered in the barbican. Into the yard poured a troop of knights wearing full panoply of helms, plate mail, lances, and shields. The Brotherhood still trained in such archaic armor and used it for show, but even they rarely fought in it anymore. While his followers formed up in a line across the whole width of the bailey, the leader rode close and reined in, peering down at Johanna from his great warhorse as if he were looking between the slats of a second-story shutter.

  The Baron bowed. “My home is honored by your presence, Lord Provost.”

  “This is the slut?” Volpe glared at her as a tethered hawk eyes a mouse.

  The Baron bristled. “My dear, may I present—”

  “Trash!” he roared. “Peasant strumpet. What sty did you find her in? From what lineage does she spring?”

  “Her father was a knight in my—”

  “Baseborn! Spirits of death! What is a lord of your rank doing pimping gutter wenches to his sovereign? Where is your honor, if you won’t respect his? Don’t try and tell me that marriage was my nephew’s idea. I know him much too well. He loses interest in a woman the moment he rolls off her. A coin and a pat on the rump and on to the next one, that’s his style.”

  Von Fader was steaming. These insults came on top of two weeks of torment. If the two of them had been on equal terms, he would likely have struck the Provost. As it was, he tried to issue a challenge.

  “My honor required me to see my ward honorably married, my lord, just as it now requires satisfaction of you.”

  “Old fool! I don’t fight with geriatric pimps. You have political ambitions, I suppose, selling bedstuff to your betters? Good luck with them. For centuries the rulers of this land have sprung from royal loins and you want to put a strumpet’s get on the throne of Krupina!”

  Johanna intervened then, for it was her character that was being blackened and she feared the old man would suffer an apoplexy. “If I were what you call me, my lord, I would not have been chosen as your future Grand Duchess.” She was pleased to hear her voice sounding so steady. “By insulting me you insult your sovereign lord.”

  The tercel eyes returned to her. “Half a day’s notice of a state wedding? I have known stallions take longer to cover a mare. You know what happened to your betrothed’s previous wives, don’t you? Or didn’t this sleazy old fleshmonger think to warn you?”

  That jibe struck at her secret fears, and her own temper flamed. “And who gained by those women’s deaths? You will not dispose of me as easily as you did them, Lord Volpe. I intend to live long enough to give Krupina an heir who does not have blood on his hands.”

  There was a momentary pause before he responded to that accusation. “You are more of a fool than I thought. I won’t wish you long life and happiness, because you won’t get either. Don’t boil up too many cabbages for the wedding feast, old man. There won’t be any guests. Just the local scum.”

  One of the knights behind him shouted a warning. The Baron’s men were coming into view along the battlements, carrying crossbows. It was certainly a bluff, but there were a lot of them and the seneschal had mustered them with impressive speed.

  The Baron returned to the fray. “Better a ruler of honest peasant stock than a gutter-mouthed hireling.” No matter that the Provost truly was a mercenary, to use that word to his face was insult. “It is clear this land will be better off without you wearing the coronet, my lord—a professed soldier who will not even fight a man nigh twice his age. Leave my house. Go drop your vomit in your own kennel.”

  Volpe turned his horse and led his men out through the barbican.

  His prophecy about the wedding guests was fulfilled. No grandiose coaches rolled into the bailey. Johanna’s sister, Voica, arrived on a lathered donkey with minutes to spare; the Baron’s vassals and bondsmen from far and near brought their families to cheer the happy couple; but no one came from Krupa.

  The Baron conducted the ceremony and declared his liege and his ward to be man and wife.

  Trestle tables had been set up outdoors in the fall sunshine, with a backdrop of the ivy-garbed tower and gold-tinted hills. The humble who had come to stare were invited forward to help consume the feast prepared for their betters, delicacies they had never even heard of. While the servants were carrying out the scores of dishes and others were carving the o
x, the bride and groom—a lividly furious groom—stood under a massive beech tree, accepting the respects of the guests as they trooped by. Had Johanna been marrying a man of her own rank, they would have been heaping gifts at her feet—knitwear, pots, pewter, furs, spices—but they all knew that she would have no need of those in the Agathon Palace, so they had nothing to offer except shy good wishes.

  Then a youth of about sixteen summers sauntered up to the head of the line, obviously a young gentleman, because his red, green, and gold riding costume must have cost a fortune, and a jeweled sword hung at his side. No one contested his claim of precedence. His confidence and arrogance sprang from both rank and awareness of remarkable personal beauty—straight nose, clear dark eyes, clean-shaven face marred only by a few acne zits and the dust of the road. He bowed low to the Duke and then appraised the bride, raising both hands in amazement.

  “Exquisite! Perfection! The face of a child and the body of a woman. Krupa will swoon at your feet, Cousin.”

  Annoyed at this crudity and even more annoyed to feel herself blushing at it, Johanna looked to her husband for an explanation.

  Rubin seemed, were it possible, even more angry than before. “The black sheep, my dear. I am embarrassed to present my cousin, Lord Karl. Undoubtedly the only reason he has come here today is because I did not invite him.”

  “Not so!” Lord Karl said with a pout. “It was mostly because my father forbade it.” He flashed a smile at Johanna as if she would understand. “I could not pass up a chance to annoy both of them. Sorry I’m late. My dear father has set up pickets on every road. I had to ride all around the dukedom to get here. But I look forward to the rest of the party. May I have the second dance?”

  Father? He could only mean Lord Volpe, but Johanna had always understood that the Vamky knights were sworn to celibacy. Karl must be illegitimate.